


The Devil's Oath

by senatoramidala



Category: Historical RPF, Original Work
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-15 09:55:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5781442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/senatoramidala/pseuds/senatoramidala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the story of Erzsébet, only daughter of the most famous (or infamous?) voivode Vlad Țepeș, most commonly known as Dracula. Erzsébet's very conception of life is questioned when she realizes that she is all but a pawn on a chessboard, playing her father's bloody game.<br/>She learns witchcraft from her aunt and marries against Dracula's will. She will work her courage and build an armour for herself in a world of men at war. The Princess will wade through blood, experience true loss and fight for her birthright, even if it means contending with her own brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Poenari Castle, Wallachia, Spring 1476_  


I dream of spring, always. I dream of peace and summer in this land on which war has brought so many ruins. And it is spring at last, as I let my hair down my back in a plait and climb the hidden stairway to the castle's battlements. From behind them, I can see Wallachia's wild woods and high hedges, green again in this glorious spring, overgrowing as far as my gaze can reach.  
I inhale the scent of wildflowers and let my lungs rejoice at the ecstatic feeling. I can hear the river of Argeș' rumble flowing beneath the water gates, like a lullaby to which my heart sings along. No one but a true Drăculea scion could possibly know this secret song.  
This land opening before me, Wallachia, is my home and this castle - of all places - my father's castle, is where I feel most powerful and at peace.  
Heaven knows though, that peace is an empty word here and a joy that these good people have forgotten. The country's been at war for as long as I can remember. Even my brother Mihnea, who is older than me by one year, has known nothing but war.  
When my maid-in-waiting comes to me, my face must be a picture of both hope and restlessness, for she is too afraid even to draw my attention. She is named Maria Voichiţa, and I insist that she behaves like a true lady-in-waiting from the English or French courts and that she stays in my attendance day and night, but in truth she is the bastard daughter of my late uncle Radu and my father's ward. She is a pretty girl of nineteen, only a few years older than me, gap-toothed and soft-spoken, with a sweet wit about her. Even though I am trueborn, the daughter of Verona and Vlad of Wallachia, and she is not, I love her like a sister.  
"What is it?" I call upon her, when it's clear that she is not going to speak first.  
Maria flinches, as if I've suddenly reminded her of the duty that she had come to carry out. "My lady, your father the Voivode wishes to see you at his court."  
I smile feebly at that. Just as I insist stubbornly at keeping a lady-in-waiting about me as if I were a great princess, my father cannot help himself when it comes to the styles of Voivode and Prince, though he is neither anymore. We are proud, and we will probably still be proud in our graves, as my silver-tongued aunt Alexandra likes to complain.  
My father's regency of these lands was lost to him a good fifteen years ago, when he fell captive to the King of Hungary, for the King would no longer support his endless crusade against the Ottomans. He was released five years later, on the promise that he would not raise a finger to snatch Wallachia from the Ottoman's rule again.  
He promised at once, shrewd and unpenitent devil that he is, and the Hungarian King even gave him one of his kinswomen to wed since my mother, the Voivode's first wife, had died during her husband's confinement in Buda, birthing me.  
As the King should have known, my father's parole did not cause one moment's delay. He came back to Wallachia with his new Hungarian wife, and has been hatching preparations for the reconquest of his land ever since.  
He's not a man to be denied, my sire, so I glance one last time into the thin air outside the battlements, and head straight for the throne room, where he is sure to entertain a small court. The Prince of Wallachia trusts very few men with his plans, and he keeps nearly no one in earshot. He's constantIy fearing a spy from the Ottomans at our court. The Ottomans are his curse, as he's dubbed them, and will not let him sleep. He has impaled more suspicions than I can count, solely on the charge of being suspicious. Some will whisper that there never were any spies here, and that the Prince has just lost his wits, but they must be especially quiet in their whispering, for the Voivode has sworn to impale the whisperers alongside the others, and everyone in Wallachia knows that Vlad Drăculea will not honor his word to a King of Christendom, but will never fail to fulfill a threat.  
I am well aware of this wariness, so I decide to wait in the doorway like a common attendant, rather than his own daughter, but I try my best not to let it irk me.  
"Daughter, come forth. I should like to speak to you." His voice is dark and raspy. He's not spared me a single glance but, for some reason, he knows I have arrived. As I step into the damp room, I recognize a few faces seated at the table as they turn to look at me.  
Most of them are our kinsmen through marriage. Mostly Wallachian boyars, but some of them I recognize as Moldavians, subjects to my father's cousin, Prince Ștefan III.  
Their faces are bold and their gazes stern below the bushy eyebrows, but I know better than to show fear. Fear is for the winter, while this is my spring, and spring is meant for thoughtless joy. I do not prompt Maria to follow me, and I find that she was in no rush to do it anyway. She dreads even being in the same room as him, and I wish to spare at least her from this trial.  
The Voivode summons me to his left hand, for his right is already claimed by the man that I only now recognize as my own brother, Mihnea. My brother and I are the only children born of Drăculea's first marriage to a Wallachian noblewoman, Verona Basarab.  
It is said that we inherited our straight black hair and fair complexion from her, whiles our little step-brothers, Vlad and Mircea, have gotten their unruly chestnut manes and gray eyes from Ilona Szilágyi, the Voivode's second wife and cousin to the King of Hungary, Matthias Corvinus.  
All the boyars, even the proudest among them, bow their heads to me, Princess Erzsébet of the Drăculești. Mihnea, though, barely acknowledges my presence at the table. I pay him no heed.  
My eyes are firmly cast upon my father, who is now favoring me with a crooked grin that sends chills down my spine. I brace myself for the worst.  
"Daughter, you are now a woman grown, and it's past time that you marry." He begins, shattering my fears all at once. I am only fifteen and I should loathe the prospect of marrying anyone whom I have never met before, and a part of me does, but I also know that weddings build peace. Besides, my husband-to-be might be of a foreign land and take me with him when we wed, far away from my father's grasp. I was taught to accept my fate with good grace and, God willing, I might even find joy in the most unexpected place, as it's happened for some women of my family before.  
I curtsey shortly, but my eyes are already shifting from one lord's face to another, for the husband that my father has chosen for me must be seated among these, and I long to know who he is more than anything. I pray silently in my heart that he is one of the younger, although I am aware that the Prince wouldn't hesitate to marry his only daughter to a man who's thrice my age, if said man could further his ambitions all but a little.  
Tense as I am in expectation, I can barely hear the whispering rising from the table. The Voivode Vlad silences them all with a side-glance that could've been Attila's own.  
"You are to wed my cousin, a great prince of Moldavia. You shall be the wife of Ștefan cel Mare and bring his country into our crusade against the heretics."  
Air is sucked out from my lungs for a moment, as I dare to meet my father's gaze just then.  
Prince Ștefan is Drăculea's cousin, thus my own too, once removed. Despite the fact that we are related by blood, I have never met him before and, as it turns out, my husband-to-be is not even in the same room as me right now.  
This is not what leaves me most astonished, though. I had guessed that my father wished to marry his only daughter to a mighty Hospodar of our own land in order to keep the boyars' loyalties to himself, but it seems to me now that his aims are heading elsewhere.  
I am only fifteen and a woman. I know next to nothing of how to keep people loyal and strategy and wars and allegiances, but I am a Wallachian princess as well, and I know that we draw our strength from our lands and feuds. And right now, the boyars seated at this very table don't seem very pleased by the notion that the Voivode's only maiden daughter is to go to a Moldavian prince. And yet again their Prince seems to overlook and displease them, following nothing but his own constant scorching thirst for Ottoman blood.  
"Father, I had thought the Prince was already married to Maria of Mangup." I volunteer. He seems annoyed that I should even bring this up, although the Prince's second wife seems a most grievous hurdle to me. "He shall cast her aside for you. A Prince can do that. He will do that as soon as he sees you. Besides, it is not a secret that he no longer desires his wife, and that he has lost any interest in her since he could not take hold of Gothia through her."  
I nod obediently at last, although this sounds awfully cruel to me, that a woman should be set aside as an old toy, but I hush, for there is nothing else that I can do.  
Suddenly, my aunt Alexandra's words start to ring inside my head. I, too, fear that my father's pride will be his downfall. I tell myself that I need to take what ever God sends my way with good grace, as the true Wallachian princess that I am. Besides, my husband-to-be is truly of a foreign land, just as I thought, and he will take me away, to his court of poets and singers, and leave my father and his court of boot-scrapers to discuss war.

My childish and selfish hopes are shattered by my own aunt Alexandra, as soon as I tell her, and I find that she knew of the handfast long before I did.  
"You don't know your father as well as I, if you truly thought that he would send his only maiden daughter to Ștefan cel Mare at once. He is a mistrustful man and wary of his own kin. There'll be war first. Moldavia's loyalty to our prince is to be tested first. Stefan shall join your father on the battlefield and fight side by side with him against the Ottomans. He will see him bleed before he trusts the man with his own daughter. And even before that, he has to make sure that the Prince truly casts his wife aside and weds you instead."  
My aunt is a comely woman still, my father's older and widowed sister of forty-seven. She has the Drăculea's sharp wit and teeth. And I am of the same blood, so it doesn't take me too long to realize what this truly means. "I am to be the war's spoils?"  
She smiles, her black head leaning on her hand. "Yes, child. That's a clever way to put it."  
I feel a wildfire rage rise inside me. I knew my marriage, whenever the day would come for me to wed, would be loveless. I was raised knowing this. It's part of the bargain for being born a princess, but it's like I didn't grasp the true meaning of it until now, on this sunny spring day, facing my aunt at the table of her privy chamber. We are alone, for my aunt dismissed our maids-in-waiting, so that we could have a word about this hastily-done handfast in private.  
My head is going blank with illogic thoughts, as I sit in front of my aunt still and quiet, and  
I feel as if I am coming undone by thinking of all the things that I could do if I was a man. I think of Mihnea. He is Drăculea's heir. He is the blood of Attila and he could defy my father if he wanted to. Even my little half-brothers have better chances than me.  
I was taught to nod and accept things with a smile. They told me that this is what it means to be a princess. This is my fate. But here, in this hazy castle, I know that I am but a pawn in a man's hands, playing the part that he's chosen for me. Even if I wanted to, I wouldn't be able to escape my fate. I am to live and die as it's expected of me. I have lived all my young  
years waiting for the day when I would come of age, marry one of my father's boyars, and produce little sons and pretty daughters that would give me joy when my husband was away, fighting for my father. But here, the day has finally come, and I realize that I have never had any other chance anyway. It is either a matter of willingly desire it, or passively accept it. The realization fills me with dread and rage and I can barely keep my hands from twitching in restlesness.  
"Here, dear. Pick one." Aunt Alexandra's voice feels like a hand helping me to the surface of the deepest sea where I was drowning. I look down on the round table between us, and there are playing cards scattered all over it, their bright faces downwards.  
Her facial features are serene and motionless, as she is waiting for me to turn one. I have no desire to play at all, as I would sooner run out in the greening wildness and scream until my throat was sore.  
After I pick one almost out of duty, she tells me that these are no ordinary playing cards, but tarots. I drop the card that I've picked as if it was on fire, even before looking at it. Tarots are an extravagant pack of cards originating from Mamluk Egypt, often used by fortune-tellers and witches to predict future. They are the latest fashion from the Ottoman court, and Father has promised to have the hands of whoever is caught in the act of playing this sinful game.  
My aunt bursts in a laugh that I deem utterly out of place. She knows full well that Vlad Tepes makes exceptions for no one, not even his own kin. She simply takes the tarot that I had formerly picked and then dropped. She looks at it, and the smile on her face softens a little thereafter.  
"What is it?" I catch myself feeling curious about the card that I shouldn't even allow into my sight. My aunt flashes a grin that resembles her brother's all too much. She's rumoured to dabble in witchcraft, but I never believed it. After all, Father's rumoured to drink the blood of the men he impales. Ours is a supersticious people, and our family is at the core of many unseemly beliefs, but I wouldn't believe one word of it. Now, though, I see that my aunt might actually be a witch in the end, and I dare not to inquire about what Drăculea does with the bodies of his slain enemies, not now, at least.  
"I thought you wouldn't even look at it." My aunt teases me, letting her lean fingers linger on the tarot's flowery edge. What we are doing is forbidden by my father's own laws, as I am perfectly aware, she must be too. I swallow before I speak. This, after all, is a form of defiance too. "I shall see it now."  
She turns the card at once, so that I am finally able to see it as well. It bears the colorful picture of a little child dancing with a goblet in each hand. It is painted in the Arabian style and I cannot deny its beauty. I ignore its meaning and I cannot understand what the small writ at the boy's foot reads, so I turn to my aunt for explanation.  
"It is the Page of Cups", she tells me, handing me the tarot. I examine the card in my hand, wondering what exactly has led me to pick this one out of all the others. Now that she calls it by name, I recognize that the child is clad in the eastern clothing meant for pages.  
"Does it have a meaning?" I ask, almost as an aside, enraptured by the card's charming features in my hands.  
"Every tarot has a meaning, but I wouldn't focus on that right now. What's more important is that you chose this one card, and you chose it today."  
I stare at her. Her words are a puzzle to me, just as this Ottoman game that we're playing.  
"The Page of Cups is a good card, I tell you. It is a young and promising fellow, like you are now. She is doing what she's bid now, but she might grow to be very powerful one day.  
Alas, she's only a page today, and she still has a lot to learn about the world, but give her time and..."  
Her voice drifts off as if she wants to leave the rest to my imagination. I sit silent and even more puzzled than before. Is she telling me to be patient and pliant whilst Father moves me where he wishes as a lifeless pawn?  
I have done that all my life, but it is different now. Can I do it with an easy heart now that I am conscious?  
"I was born a princess of Wallachia, but now you are telling me that I am no more than a common page dancing to a powerful lord's tune."  
Her lips curve upward in a bittersweet, pitying smile. "Ha, Erzsébet, my child. I am telling you nothing. You are no man's pawn. We are all puppets dancing to a greater lord's tune. Even your father, who might seem the greatest prince in the world to you, is convinced that he's his own master, but truly he is just carrying out another's will. I shall pity the man who dares to tell him that, though. There is no use in telling anyone. He will only realize this simple truth on his last day among the living, and what a day it will be for us!  
This is why I am telling you nothing, darling niece. This is the soul of the world you're hearing, the flow of all natural beings guiding you, and the best thing that you could do right now is to follow it, and see where it takes you."

 


	2. Chapter 2

_Poenari Castle, Wallachia, Summer 1476_

As Summer draws near, I learn that the Ottomans have mustered a large army and that their next move is to invade Moldavia, my betrothed's land. The Voivode is eager to test his ally's loyalty and he's ready to aid him against the Ottomans, as my aunt had warned me, and I know that he will bring war upon us once again. It never truly ended, and I doubt that it ever will. This time, he intends to take Vlad and Mircea with him as well, his sons from the Princess Consort Ilona Szilágyi. They are no more than boys of ten and eleven, but the Voivode won't hear one word about the matter, not even from his grief-stricken weeping wife.  
I bid my farewell to them both tonight, for they are to ride out to battle at the first lights.  
Vlad is a handsome lad of eleven, gray-eyed and quick-tempered, and I have grown to love him utterly. My other half-brother, Mircea, stands at his side, already so tall for a boy of only ten. He is straining not to weep in front of me and his mother, whose beautiful face is already stained with tears.  
"You are both so brave. You will honor us, I am sure." I say, stroking their chestnut hair. I am repeating the same lies that they have been ensnaring me since childhood to these two poor children.  
I trust that Father will keep them safe and far from the heat of battle and I shall pray for their safe return every day.  
The Princess Consort gives them her blessing, as it's usual, but the grief in her eyes is too overbearing. She cannot let them go with a light heart. I look at her from the corner of my eye, and I cannot help wondering if one day I will shed the same tears over my sons from the Prince of Moldavia.  
"Did you know that your betrothed has only one leg, Bet?" Mircea asks me, as if I could have a clue as to this man's looks. He is only a child and I know that he means well. He has no ill will to offend me or my husband-to-be.  
"Don't be stupid, he's as many legs as anyone else. It's just that one of them is ill." Vlad corrects his little brother, and the two of them argue over their porridge and Prince Ștefan's legs.  
Princess Ilona has already retired to her chambers, where she is praying together with my aunt before going to bed, and the Voivode never dines with his family. We are by ourselves, Vlad, Mircea, Maria and I. Maria giggles behind her spoon, and I withdraw a little within myself, where I can watch the entire picture from afar for a while. I wish to remember it like this, even when the boys will be gone, and Maria will no longer attend me, and I'll be living in a foreign court.  
Whatever the outcome, I shall keep my memories and draw joy from them.  
"If he's lame then I'll fight by his side, and protect him for your sake." Mircea assures me, as if this stranger's life means anything to me.  
I thank him with a smile that curdles on my face, as soon as I glimpse a dark figure lurking in the dark hallway behind the boys. I mistake him for the Prince himself at first, but another look makes his identity plain to me, even before he speaks.  
"If you really want to please her, you would do best to draw a dagger through his heart." Mihnea's voice is dark and bleak, and an unexpected sound inside the hall. Vlad, Mircea and Maria turn to look at him, wide-eyed and easily frighted. He comes out of the darkness and finally reveals himself. He smiles at me, although his eyes don't.  
"You may not speak like this of my betrothed, brother." I say, staunchly, in an attempt to sooth the others. Mihnea has this unworldly skill of chilling any merryment wherever he goes, and I will never forgive him for ruining this lovely moment, that could be one of our last.  
"Why shouldn't I? He's weak and if his leg fails him on the battlefield when either Vlad or Mircea are in need of his defense, you know what happens then?" He is a gust of wintry wind in the midst of summer, as he rests his hands on the chairs' backs where the boys are seated. "And what if he decides to keep his old wife and refuse you? Wouldn't it sting your pride, sister?"  
I rise to my feet brusquely, upset that he should even just say something so hateful and ill-omened in front of them.  
"What do you want here? I thought you were dining with Father and his men." It is an old custom of Wallachian warlords. They dine and fast together with their soldiers, as to show that they're going to share glory and burdens alike.  
"I was hoping for your blessing and your farewell before I march on the morn." He explains, not a hint of warmth in his tone.  
"I give you my blessing, and I shall pray for your return." I bring myself to say the formal words. There is nothing I wouldn't say right now to rid us of his presence. He has ridden out to battle with our father since he was younger than Mircea. He's a hardened warrior, even at sixteen, and an even more experienced murderer. God knows that he needs all the praying he can get. Mihnea smiles wickedly, and I can feel something awry stirring in my belly as he bows his head to me and whispers, "Yes. _You shall_."

Later that night, my sleep is troubled by the most horrid nightmares. I dream of death, of guts spilling under agonizing eyes, of spears towering over a blood-stained battlefield.  
A man all clad in red is fleeing from the same battlefield, screaming for help, but nobody answers his call. He has made death all around himself. He runs, and runs, but we both know that it is too late for him. He will lose his head for this. I wake up, sweating and gasping for air.  
Maria is sleeping peacefully at my side, and I do not wish to wake her just to alarm her.  
I tell myself that I have nothing to fear, they're nothing but a silly girl's dreams, and yet I am shivering in cold and fear. I feel like drowning in my own bed, so I get up, and don my shawl over my nightgown. I am going to the castle's chapel, to pray, and hopefully to find solace.  
The court is quiet the night before the battle, and only the distant bark of dogs spoils the calmness of it all. I tighten my shawl as I walk towards the altar, and soon enough I find that I am hugging myself. My body is longing for comfort, and no matter how hard I try to ignore it, I'll always betray myself in the end.  
I kneel on the stone cold floor before the Holy Virgin's altar, and weep for my country, my half-brothers, my father, my dead mother, for the grieving Princess Ilona, and even for Mihnea, but mostly, I weep for myself. I am not even praying, I just keen like a peasant woman over the tragedy that I know will strike me soon, and all I can do is to wait for it, to embrace it, and see where it takes me. To my grave, most definitely.  
When I think that I've had enough crying, I take the hem of my shawl and rub my wet face and sit back on my heels. The world is a watery kingdom from behind wet eyelids.  
I am stupid with grief still and I cannot think straight, so when I hear my name echoing through the stone walls I think that it must be God himself summoning me to his heavenly kingdom.  
Then I hear him call again, and turn back. I am wailing and kneeling like a beggar and Mihnea is looking at me. I feel my grief turn to ice within myself, and my tears freeze on my cheeks.  
I cannot let him see, I won't let him see me like this. Not him.  
I rise to my feet and walk towards him without as much as a word, down the little chapel's nave. I walk past him, heading for my bedchamber, but he takes me by the wrist and draws me back to him. His movements are so swift and silent that I cannot even acknowledge the full act.  
I dare not to look him in the eye, ashamed and raging as I am. There's no use in wrenching away for he's so much stronger than I am. My brother says nothing. He's holding me in a tight grip and I should be able to hear the beat of his heart for he is holding my head against his chest, but I don't. I even doubt he's alive, this brother of mine. A stillness and a cold silence seize me as in Death's very embrace, and I think that he could kill me right here, right now. I do not fear, though. It's odd but all of sudden I feel at peace. Numb, yes, but my misfortune forgotten for a while.  
"I have a terrible feeling. I dare not even speak of such horrors..." I say in a faint whisper, my head still against my brother's broad chest. Tears stain my voice, and it seems unbelievable to me that I should seek comfort in Mihnea's arms right now.  
"It is war." He answers, as simple as anything.  
"It's not war that concerns me. We've been at war for years, and death on the battlefield is a honorable death, as long as the dead are granted a Christian burial. It is something far worse... What I fear is sheer bloodshed and butchering... I saw it..." I must sound rather pathetic, and not a princess of the Dracula blood at all, but I am past caring.  
"I did too, and we will again. I shall protect Mircea and Vlad in battle with my life, you have my word. But you must be strong and keep the women here safe, and all those who are left behind too. You shall run this household until our return. I'll bring your husband to you as soon as the battle is over."  
For a moment, just a short moment, it's like Mihnea actually cares for me, and would gladly see me married to a good prince, rather than grown old and lonely in this grim castle.  
But I know it can't be for my sake alone. He has a hundred reasons to have me married to this Moldavian prince, just as much as Father, and I will not fool myself any longer over the two of them. I pull away from the embrace, as soon as I am allowed to, for then again something about what he's just said is unclear to me.  
"I promise that I shall keep our kinswomen safe and run the household in Father's absence, but... I shall go to Moldavia to wed the Prince, and not the other way around, brother. Father will send me to his court as soon as your fighting here is done. That is his plan for me." Mihnea's black-gray eyes flicker briefly, long enough to let me catch a glimpse of what I haven't been told yet.  
"That is the Prince's plan, is it not? And the Prince will still be prince when the fighting comes at an end, won't he?" My voice quivers in doubt and apprehension at what I still don't know. Mihnea pulls me away rather than facing my questions.  
"You need not fear anything. I shall take care of you better than any husband and when the battle is over, I will come back to you in a prince's garbs."

This is the last time I see him, for many many months. Not a word from him or even my father and half-brothers reach us, the women waiting helplessly inside Poenari Castle.  
A woman knows that lack of news from the battlefield is good news, but I am unable to find peace nevertheless. I brood on Mihnea's last words to me that night on the chancel steps, and my sleep gets more troubled by the day.  
Princess Ilona falls mysteriously ill in late July and the physicians are as puzzled as anyone. Aunt Alexandra, though, seems to recognize the singular symptoms of my step-mother's sickness and she sends the learned men on their way, spiteful as she can be.  
The Princess looks rather appalling, although she was always known as a beauty, and many men at the Hungarian court would weep for her when the Corvinus king announced that his charming cousin was to wed the disgraced and wicked voivode of Wallachia who had been living in the dungeons beneath their castle.  
Today, as I enter in the sickroom, I see that she is wasting away. The beauty still lingers on her pale face, but it's such a sad sight overall that I cannot bear to look at her.  
"She's sick at the heart, poor woman." My aunt remarks, once we dismiss ourselves to let the Princess Ilona rest, although she does little else these days. She sleeps, and wakes only to question whoever walks by about the fate of her sons, as if they would know something that she's ignoring.  
"The heart?" Maria Voichiţa tilts her head like a confused bird.  
I should not know what my aunt is speaking of. I should be as puzzled as Maria and the physicians, but I know what my aunt means, and I know what is killing my poor step-mother.  
I have no children of my own, but I have dreamed of my lady mother since I was a little girl. She died of a childbed fever after birthing me, and her heart must have been broken too, just like Ilona's.  
"We should pray", I prompt at once. I have been praying for Mircea, Vlad, Father and even Mihnea's return, just like I promised that I would, albeit seldomly in the chapel. That place is of no comfort to me ever since Mihnea bestowed upon me the greatest doubt that has ever seized my soul. I have prayed at the foot of my bed, though, every night without fail.  
Maria agrees promptly. She's a most devout and pure-hearted lass, and I ween that if her prayers cannot move the Maker's pity, then nothing else will help the dying princess.  
My aunt, of course, seems to be of a different opinion. She makes a little face as she goes to her knees to pray, as if to let me know that prayers, whilst comforting the living, can do very little for a soul that is between this world and the other. I keep silent, though, and pretend not to see her. My eyes are closed behind my joined hands, but I am not praying at all.  
My mind is a tangled skein of musings so, when my aunt summons me to her privy chamber late at night, I am almost glad to leave Maria's company and my own room. I am a most obnoxious companion these days, and I know that Maria has noticed, even if she does not utter a word about it.  
I find Alexandra of the Drăculești seated at her window, on the western side of the castle.  
In her nightgown of white silk and her long black streaked with silver plait, she looks like a maiden of the songs, waiting for her knight to come home. This woman has no knight though, and her heart is only her own. I should like to be like her, I realize. And I realize this as soon as she turns from the window glass to look at me and meet her defiant gaze.  
"Cannot sleep, niece?" She asks, favoring me with a cunning smile.  
The moon is full and high in the clear night sky. The southern Carpathians, which my aunt was looking at from her window, shine in an eerie silvery shade under the moonlight.  
I shake my head, as I hope that she will spare me the rest of the questions. I came here for answers, since I have none on my own. She seems to read my mind, and beckons me at her side. I sit at her feet, like I used to do when I was a little girl, and she would comb my hair before sending me to bed.  
She does not speak, though. She is like the sly serpent; putting a notion into Eve's ear, and then never speaking of it again, patiently waiting for it to bloom into her very heart's desire.  
"You told me once that I should be patient and wait, for my day would come sooner or later. And you knew this by a card that you barely looked at. You did not even pray for Princess Ilona's healing today!"  
"Did you?" She asks simply, and I am left to gape at her like a silly child. Of course I did not, and I feel the shame rise to my face. I can feel myself flushing from brow to my neck.  
She laughs lovingly. The soft ring of it is endearing, as much as threatening. "My child, no need to feel ashamed. You are what you are, and there's no use in denying it. It is past time that you know everything that you need to know about your family."  
I swallow, and I raise my chin so I can look up at her, eager for what ever she will say next.  
"You are the daughter of a most crucial line. You have heard the men of your household brag about the blood of Attila flowing in their veins... well, it is true. The male line of the Basarab family descends directly from Attila the Hun, the man who came into the world to shake the nations and ride ahead of the largest army there ever was. Your father and your brother cannot escape their thirst for blood and war. It runs too deep, you cannot blame them, and you should remember this when you'll birth a son of your own."  
She leaves me a few moments to weigh her words. I was taught to revere my father and brothers and to marvel at their prowess from an early age because their blood is the blood of the mighty Attila, and they lay waste wherever they step.  
"But what about us?" I almost complain, for I feel the unfairness of this all too deeply, and for the first time now, that it's almost cruel. There has to be something fierce and terrible about the women as well. When I look at my aunt, I just know that it must be so.  
She strokes the nape of my neck, and her smile curdles a little on her handsome face.  
"We are women, and we cannot hope to lead armies and bend kings to our bidding, but our blood is thick with the power of the old magic. You will never inherit your father's rule, but there is something that I shall leave you as my personal legacy and that no man shall ever take from you: the ancient and secret lore of Wallachian witches."  
My blood freezes in my veins as soon as she says the word. The one word that I shouldn't want to hear, but the only one that I have been expecting since I stepped into the room.  
I held the answer inside me, although I did not know before now.  
"A... witch?" I whisper, now suddenly short on air. She nods, untroubled by my astonishment. "And I believe that you are one of these women. You have proved that already, haven't you? With your dreams, child. You have the Sight. And besides, you wouldn't be here if something hadn't drawn you to seek answers in this very room. I told you once that you should only listen, for the voice of the universe would have led you straight to your fate without fail."  
Countless disjoint events now begin to gather together in my mind, and together, they all make sense. My dreams, and the voice of the river singing me to sleep at night, as a loving mother. It is a connection as deep as blood, that I could never bear to explain to anyone for fear of feeling utterly stupid.  
"Some of us draw strength from the waters, others from the woods, and many more from the moon herself. I have heard of women of our family who could seize a flame with their fingers unburnt. Nobody but you can know who you are going to be. I ween that you know already."  
I kneel in silence, brooding on my aunt's every word. This talk seems to come so natural to her, but nothing about it is natural to me. Even now, I can hear the violent hurling of the Argeș against the water gates and it is urging me to inquire further. "Where does this power come from? Men's legacy is the fury of Attila, but whose power is this?"  
She smiles at my curiosity, and patiently answers. "It is an old story, perhaps older than Attila's. It is nothing like the songs of heroes and princes who slay the seven-headed Balaur in battle, Erzsébet. Ours is a tale of dark magic and treachery. We are rewarded as the daughters and the sisters of Ileana Cosânzeana."  
I repeat the name under my breath, to feel its taste. Every child in Wallachia knows who Ileana Cosânzeana is. She is a beautiful princess, a Sânziană, half fairy, half goddess. The legend says that a frightful dragon held her captive in the underworld, until the brave knight Făt-Frumos killed the monster and rescued her, thus claiming her as his bride.  
And then I think of Attila ahead of his mighty army, wind brushing against his hard face and long wild hair, as he rides to battle, his enemies' hearts and the ground underneath his feet shaking together. All of sudden, being a descendant of Ileana doesn't seem so flattering anymore. My aunt laughs at the face that I make and dismisses my ridiculous thoughts with a flick of her hand. "The tale you have been told is only half of the truth. Ileana was a powerful sorceress dwelling in the thick woods of Wallachia, and not a born princess like you. She had the gift of foretelling the future of men. She could summon clouds in the sky and unleash endless storms upon the earth. It is said that her power was so great that on a night of full moon, she could even float and dance in the air like a fairy."  
My eyes are wide and my lips only half-closed, as I listen to my aunt and picture this most wondrous lady she's speaking of, entranced. "And what about the rest of the story? Didn't Făt-Frumos truly save her from Zmeu, the monster who kidnapped her and wooed her?" I ask, thinking of the shapeshifter that could change his form to that of a handsome young man or a giant fire-spitting dragon. This peculiar creature would kidnap beautiful maidens and terrify them into marrying him.  
"Oh, Zmeu? The one you call a wicked monster, was Ileana's most loyal and humble servant. I ween that she even loved him, yes, perhaps she did. He was the only man on earth who could hope to match for her. He had fire in his lungs and his eyes, his hair shone like quicksilver. Ileana drew part of her magic from the precious stone on Zmeu's forehead. They were never married, but they were surely lovers. The two of them joined their kingdoms, thus ruling over the underworld and the woods' beings like a queen and her faithful counselor. They even had children together, beautiful and healthy children, half dragons themselves, from whom we all descend. The Drăculești."  
I marvel at this version of the tale that I have known since childhood. According to my aunt, the famous Ileana Cosânzeana was not even a maiden at all. She had taken the dreadful Zmeu as a lover and lied with him, even though womanly virtue was supposed to be her most precious treasure. "And the prince? Wasn't it expected of her that she would marry him?"  
Făt-Frumos, the daring and charming youth, suddenly looks so dull to me, and it's like the enchantment of a lifetime finally shattering before my eyes. This prince is plain compared to Ileana and her otherworldly lover, and I cannot understand why little girls like him better than the fiery Zmeu.  
My aunt Alexandra looks surprised, as if she wouldn't expect me to still remember the likes of him after hearing the whole story.  
"It truly was not, child. Ileana was a woman who had the elements at her beck and call. She wasn't expected to do anything from anyone. A man such as the prince could never love a woman like her, the founder of our house. A man of earth will never love a woman of water and fire. You'd do best to remember this, when you go to wed your Moldavian prince."  
I rest my head on her lap and avert my eyes from her gaze. I am not even sure I want to marry that prince anymore. I think I never truly was. But I cannot focus on a stranger whom I have yet to meet, or even myself right now, not when the people I love are in great peril.  
I meet my aunt's eyes again, warm, and yet as gray as the icy Carpathians peaks.  
"If prayers won't do it... perhaps we can save the Princess Ilona with a spell?" I must keep our household together until Father and the others come back. I have made it my duty, and I can see it all so clear now. I was blind, now I see. The concern for my step-mother's life is so pressing that I barely pay any mind to how silly I sound, speaking of witchcraft as if it were a new powder that works miracles.  
Aunt Alexandra does not laugh at me, though. Instead, she seems pleased to witness what miracles she did work on me in so little time. "Only life and death can be traded, for they only equal each other in the greatest balance of all things. Not even a witch can escape this rule, the one rule we all are obliged to follow. When you curse someone and bring them to an unnatural death, a life of your doing shall bloom somewhere. When you heal a mortal wound, you must know that a life shall be taken from you thereafter."  
A life for a life, of course. The price for a life is high, the highest, and anyone who dabbles in such craft should ask themselves if they are willing to pay it, if it's worth it. I remember the promise I made to myself and to Mihnea. He would protect the boys in battle, and I would keep the women safe here, in our home. Even if it's my own life that is taken, I must bear the risk, for I know that my brother shall stay true to his oath, no matter the cost.  
"Teach me how, Aunt." I rise to my feet, flaring up with determination. I am like a child on her first day of apprenticeship. A page, as my own aunt predicted with her cards.  
She turns at the window, still in her seat, and lets the moonlight gleam on her fair skin.  
Her eye-lids are only half-shut, as if she is contemplating. "Fetch a mortar and a pestel. The moon is smiling upon us."

Only a while later I would understand what she meant by that. Apparently, a witch may act only on certain nights, depending on the moon and the stars' position in the night sky.  
For healing charms and spells that give life, she told me, a witch must wait for the night when the moon is new. On the other hand, when a witch intends to curse or cast a death hex upon someone, then she will choose the darkest night of the month, when the moon does not show her silvery face in the sky, and the darkest hour in the night as well (which, she explained, is the hour between midnight and one in the morning).  
At any rate, we prepare a liquid which has the consistency of honey, mixed with herbs that my aunt knows well. She whispers words inside the cup-shaped receptacle when we're done, odd words that I cannot comprehend. Although I am dying to taste it, she forbids it. This is not a game for children, she says, and she commands me to serve the mixture to the Princess on the following day. At dawn, she rules, it is better. Dawn is the life of the world that renews itself, whereas sunset is the end of all things.  
I obey, and go to the Princess' private chambers at the first lights. I am surprised to find her awake. The maid-in-waiting in her attendance sleeps in the bed at her side.  
Her head is turned against me and the doorway. She is staring at the darkness still lingering beyond the horizon. "Princess, I have brought a new remedy for you."  
Ilona Szilágyi turns slightly to look at me. Her eyes are watery green pools, and I can see that she is failing. The physicians meant to leech her, for they thought that it was her blood that was sick and black with grief. She seems so pale now, I can scarcely believe that she has still a drop of blood left in that thin body of hers.  
"My sons? Are my boys home yet? Mircea! Vlad!" she calls, bobbing up her head to see if her children have followed me. I shake my head painfully. She rests her head against the pillows once again, disappointed that I have come alone.  
"The Voivode is bringing them home, I am sure. They will all come home to us. You must think to heal and get back to your court, Princess. We are all missing you." I sit on the bedside. I hand her the wooden receptacle in my fingers, and whisper, "Drink."  
The Princess Consort seems hollowed-out, her eyes set listless on the horizon, from where she hopes to see her sons emerge under the dragon standards of my father.  
I press the mortar to her white lips, for she doesn't seem to mind, and obediently takes small sips from it. "I am missing my sons." she breathes, once that she has drunk it all.  
"I know, but they are safe. They are in the Voivode's keeping, and my brother's too. I know they are safe and coming back to us, covered in glory." I know I am supposed to lie in order to comfort her, but right now I don't really think I am lying at all. I do believe that they are safe and on their way to us. Her eyes widen, and she inhales deeply.  
"Do you truly believe so?"  
"I am ready to bet my life on it." I assure my step-mother, "Mircea and Vlad are alive and well, as is Mihnea and..." I break off, remembering the man in red running for his life in my dreams. At last, I have to lie. "And the Voivode too, of course."


	3. Chapter 3

_Poenari Castle, Wallachia, Autumn 1476_  


It is late November by the time a stable boy rushes into the throne room, unannounced. "Princess!"  
He is dirty and he has the horse smell about himself. I have spent most part of my summer practicing the craft, and riding in the woods, looking for the herbs that my aunt has told me about, each of them producing a different effect. Not even once I was brought tidings from the battlefield, but those dreams never stopped visiting me at night.  
I should send him to my father, for this is a great slight, but then I remember that my father is not here, and that I might not see him again, so I just overlook this. He goes to his knees, perhaps to honor me and the Princess Ilona, or perhaps because he's too tired to stand. He must have been through a lot, this one.  
The Princess Consort sits on the high throne, still and afraid. She has fully recovered from her illness. I like to think that it was not only witchcraft and my aunt's knowledge of herbs that healed her, though, but my company and uplifting words as well. Maria stands at my side, wide-eyed, as amazed as I am at this boy's haste and disrespect.  
"Speak! What news do you bring?"  
"The Voivode!" He mutters, breathless. "It has been a great battle, we have won! We have won! Ștefan Báthory put him on the throne once more!"  
Ștefan Báthory of Ecsed is the Judge Royal of Hungary, a man who rose to power under King Matthias' rule, my own step-mother's cousin and King of Hungary.  
I cannot grasp the sense of this. Why is he backing my father now? All my visions were wrong, and my dreams have tricked me most terribly if my father is alive at last. Maria and the Princess let out a gasp of delight, but I am too hard-pressed trying to make a sense of this, to rejoice with them already.  
"Straighten up, boy, and tell us everything." I rule, sternly. He stands up at once, his smiling not fading from his face despite the weariness of his limbs. A servant fetchs him water to drink. I shift in my seat, until I am on the edge of the wooden carved throne, eager and restless as I can be, waiting impatiently for him to empty his cup. Only then, he begins again.  
"It began awfully for us! Your betrothed, the brave Ștefan cel Mare, met the Turks at Valea Albă, in July. The Hungarian and the Voivode's troops were meant to join the poor prince by the time the battle began, but we were delayed by a storm... the most dreadful storm that's ever struck the earth, I warrant! In the middle of summer! The poor prince had to fight alone, and was lost. Turks defeated him, but he fled, thank God!  
It was only a month later that we were able to join forces with him. Your father, the fiercest warrior I know, has led an army of 35,000 men from southern Wallachia and he met with prince Ștefan's men, a little above 15,000. The usurper Basarab Laiotă was utterly defeated! What a victory, what a victory!"  
Basarab Laiotă is the voivode that the boyars and the Ottomans have elected to replace my uncle Radu cel Frumos after his death, and then my father during his captivity at Matthias Corvinus' court. Vlad Drăculea has been trying to reconquest Wallachia and take back his rightful place for years and, apparently, he has finally succeeded, thanks to both Moldavian and Hungarian help.  
"What of the princes? Vlad and Mircea?" The Princess Consort of Wallachia clasps her trembling hands against her chest. I wait for the outrider's answer as eagerly as her. I knew that they would come home safe, but since I was wrong about my father, I cannot be sure of anything anymore. "They are well, riding with the crown prince at this very moment."  
I cannot help smiling, picturing Mihnea on his black warhorse, riding home with a boy on each side, with only the wind behind them, just as he promised.  
"What else?" I inquire, for I am still troubled, and there must be something else to this that I still don't know. The outrider's eyes are fiery and proud, as if he has won this battle himself.  
"Barely a fortnight ago, the greatest prince of Christendom has sent his firstborn son to take the capital of Târgovişte with only a small garrison. The crown prince Mihnea took it, and held it until prince Stefan's and Drăculea's arrival in the city. What a warrior, your step-son, Princess! And he's only seventeen!" He bellows, looking at the Princess Consort at my side. She nods, and smiles in acknowledgement. His words remind me that Mihnea was sixteen when he left, but he has turned seventeen this very month.  
"Ștefan Báthory has given Drăculea the rest of Wallachia. Bucharest and Sibiu and the entire country. All the boyars accept the Prince's rule now. He will claim his throne back. He is on his way even now, riding as fast as the wind itself! He has not halted, not even once, not even to sleep. They are to be here by sunset."  
"You shall find meat, bread and ale for you in the hall. Rest your bones and fetch your horse to the stables. You are our honored guest for as long as you wish."  
He bows deeply and follows a manservant to the hall where his meal of reward is to be served. I shout at Maria to ready a bath for me in my room. My husband-to-be is coming to see me, and with him the great Judge Royal of Hungary too. I have to look my best. I can barely contain my excitement.  
The Princess Consort Ilona is in a state of ill-concealed restlesness as well. She walks up and down the battlements, and doesn't even bother to change into her best gown for the men who are coming. She is going to meet the man who has murdered the son of her cousin and seized the throne for an usurper, but she does not seem to mind. All she can think about are her own sons, who are alive and coming to her, just as I predicted.  
Maria Voichiţa laces up the bodice at my back. I haven't seen her this happy in months and my heart sings, now light again after too long, even though I cannot rid myself of the feeling that it is far too soon for us to feast and make merry.  
"How do you think your betrothed shall be? Tall, and handsome and fair-haired?" She asks, as she is tying my hair under the headdress.  
I remember Mircea saying that Ștefan cel Mare had one injured leg, and that he limped heavily as he walked. "I do not know. But we shall find out soon."  
My aunt Alexandra and I exchange a little glance through the mirror that's reflecting my full shape. She looks as if she would say more, but she hushes, leans over my shoulder, and compliments my appearance instead. "You look like your mother, God rest her."  
I know. Sometimes, when I dream of her, it's like seeing my own self staring back at me from the underworld.  
At any rate, they come calling for us a few moments later, when we're all fully clothed and ready to welcome the lords. We rush into the castle courtyard at once. To reach the citadel, any visitor has to climb 1,480 stairs built from the raw rock of the Transfăgărășan, and this has to be done afoot.  
We find the Princess Consort already there. She must have been the first one to behold the Voivode's party drawing near atop the battlements.  
My father is the first face I recognize. I cannot believe he is alive until I cast my astonished gaze on him. But it's him, beyond a doubt, the Voivode in the flesh.  
Behind him come two men; the first one is a man in his late forties, tall and lean, his eyes are nervous and his lips very thin. He has a mop of brown hair on his head, and two thick side-whiskers. His footstep is steady and flawless, so I ween that this one must be Ștefan Báthory, the Judge Royal of Hungary. My step-mother curtseys to him and they kiss each other on both cheeks like kinsmen would. I lower in a curteous curtsey and , oddly, he smiles at me. Maria whispers behind her hand that he cannot take his eyes from me. I flush, for I am so unaccustomed to men's attention, locked up in this castle, among my kinsmen -women as I've always been.  
I bob up my head over his shoulder to see my betrothed, who is slowly limping towards us. It is just as Vlad said. He has two legs like any man, but only one serves him right. Ștefan III of Moldavia is a bit younger than the Judge Royal, his face is a perfect oval. A cascade of copper curls tumbles down from his head. He is visibly inclined to plumpness, and his round belly testifies to that. Tall, handsome and fair-headed, indeed. I must choke back a laugh when I think of Maria's words in the dressing room. I curtsey to him too, although I am not impressed. "It is a honor to make your acquaintance, Prince."  
"You are as charming as the tales describe you, Princess. The honor is mine."  
I can sense Maria stir at my side as soon as he speaks the formal words that truly have no meaning. I think that this is odd. I have another feeling in my chest, an omen like the previous ones, but I am not sure if I should trust my guts from now on.  
After all, I had seen my father fleeing from a lost battle, and then his head being hacked from his body, but he is before me now, sneering as if he has conquered the world.  
Why should I believe that something will happen between my lady-in-waiting and my betrothed? I dismiss the thought as nonsense.  
"Where are Mihnea and the boys?" My Aunt Alexandra addresses my father, her own younger brother. Princess Ilona echoes her, as I am sure that her heart has never borne a more straining wait than this. The Voivode turns to the rock stairs and finally, as if summoned from the thin air, I see Mihnea, my brother, and my little half-brothers behind him.  
Ilona gasps, and runs to them. She is not supposed to break her composure, as Princess Consort of Wallachia, but all the same she kneels between them like a peasant woman greeting her little uncultured offspring. They smile and bow to her politely, almost coldly.  
It's not like they are not happy to see their mother. These are just boys who have come to grips with awful deeds and have witnessed disgusting sights. The last months of their lives have changed them forever. Poor boys, I tell myself, as I trace their mother leading them inside by the hand with my eyes. The Voivode, his sister and the two foreigners precede them. I gesture to my lady-in-waiting to follow the Princess Consort in the hall, for I will linger in the courtyard to greet my brother. He is a vision, to be sure. His garments are as richly adorned as any prince's, in black and blue satin. The crown prince to the principality of Wallachia.  
I feel so silly, that I would gladly laugh at myself in front of him right now. On the day of our farewell I had given his words an ill meaning. I had thought that he meant to replace our father or worse, even have him killed in battle to succeed. And my dreams! God knows that my dreams have given me good cause to draw the worst conclusions.  
I kiss him on both cheeks now, as relieved as to forget every little skirmish that's ever happened between us. His handsome face is stern and hard in the cold of November, but he favors me with a faint smile all the same. "I have brought you the boys safe, and your husband too, although he is still lawfully married to the woman of Mangup, and I do not know what use you will make of him."  
"And you are crown prince at last, come back to me in a prince's garbs, just as you promised." I remind him of his last oath to me, fulfilled like the others. Father has decided to make him his heir after the battle, discarding little Vlad, his first son from Ilona. He tosses the small snowflakes from his breeches as if being first in line was a matter of no importance.  
"And you have kept strong and brave, nothing amiss in our stronghold for as long as you were its doamna." He straightens up again, and our faces are so close, despite the height difference between us.  
"At what price did you achieve this, sister?" Mihnea asks, in a whisper that mists the freezing air between our faces, his eyes unflinching and vaguely sad. I consider the one rule that bends all the living creatures to it. It has not struck me yet, and I don't know when it will, I just know that it is unescapable. I have saved a life, and now the universe shall claim another to restore the balance that my act has altered. I would like to know what price Mihnea has had to pay to keep all his promises, too.  
"I do not know... _yet_."

That night we all feast like we used to in times of peace. My father sits his high throne on the raised dais, the Princess Consort at his side, now serene and beautiful again. I look at them from my seat at the long trestle table, leaning my head on my right hand. My sire ought to be glad of what he has achieved. All the most powerful boyars of our country are sharing bread and meat and ale under our roof as our guests. They turned against the Turkish candidate Basarab Laiotă to support my father at last, just as they had joined in league against him to support Laiotă some time earlier. They cannot be trusted, but Ștefan Báthory insisted that they should all be pardoned, so here they are now, the Voivode's most trusted friends and allies, laughing and raising toasts to his victory at the longest table I've ever seen. I ween that all the boyars in Wallachia must be in this hall right now, and we are feeding them all.  
Báthory and Ștefan of Moldavia have joined us as well. Vlad Drăculea has given them seats of great honor at the table. My betrothed sits at my right-hand side, and the Judge Royal on the other side, facing me. Mihnea is the first man of the table, of course, and his seat is the second highest, after the Voivode's own.  
Then comes my aunt Alexandra, the Prince's sister. I smile at her from my seat, and she bows her head shortly in acknowledgement. If it weren't for her, I do not know what would have been of us all. Princess Ilona would be all but buried by now, and the suckling pig in my plate would taste so much bitter than it does now. Alexandra has a little prince on each side of her. Usually this would serve to prevent any chance of fight between the two children, who were always at odds, but I see that this measure is useless tonight.  
They are quieter than ever, and do not even laugh along with the others, do not argue over their aunt and meat. I am brooding on this fact, which fills me with sadness, and I am so taken with my own thoughts that I do not even hear Maria when she addresses me.  
Father ruled that her presence ought to be avoided at the feast, for she is bastard born, and all these prideful trueborn lords might have taken offense from the very sight of her.  
I dared to defy him for the first time in my life, insisting that if she didn't attend the feast, I wouldn't either, and then the boyars could double their offense, for all I cared. My father narrowed his eyes warily, as if creeping through the soul underneath my skin, but he consented at last, so Maria sits at my left-hand side now.  
"Princess!" She tugs at my lace sleeve, in hopes to draw my attention.  
"What? What did you say?" I am taken aback from being grounded all at once.  
"The Judge Royal... can't you see? I think he likes you!"  
I lift my gaze to the man sitting across the table. He is looking at me, as Maria has pointed out, and he is, I dare say, handsome when he smiles. I flush again, just like I did in the moment of our first encounter. I hush my lady-in-waiting with a glare. My plump and married husband-to-be is sitting at my side this very moment, and even though he seems too busy on his suckling pig to hear anything, I would not want the precious allegiance between Moldavia and Wallachia to end because of a silly girl's whim.  
"You are imagining it." I lie, even though my face is on fire. "You should be ashamed even to think of something like that."  
She lowers her brow and, in a fit of guilt, I feel suddenly sorry for her.  
After the feasting is done, the dance finally starts. I love dancing, it is my favorite part of every feast, and sadly there is so little dancing at this court that I've almost forgotten how to do it.  
The boyars shout for the Voivode to start the dances with his gracious wife, and I cheer for them, although I doubt that he will do as he is bid. Unexpectedly, he does, and they step down from the dais to the hall arm in arm. The musicians strike up a saltarello, a fast dance that requires swift movements and graceful footsteps. The Voivode leads the dance, and the Princess Consort partners him quite gracefully. There is a hop or a skip at the end of each step but they both manage more than just well. "This is a miracle!" I bellow at my aunt, who remains seated and smiles wistfully, secretly laughing of every fool in this hall.  
"Oh, no need to bring the Maker's doing into something so earthly. This is just your father showing his servants and allies precisely what they wish to see. A capable ruler who can murder men in his clearest conscience during the day, and dance cheerfully with his lovely wife on that very night. His life's been at stake for months, and it still is, but every man in Wallachia ought to see that he fears nothing. His heart is as light as a child's tonight."  
Once again, my aunt makes me open up my eyes. I believe that this is her greatest power, regardless of the magic that she can work, and I am so grateful for her, even though the hall is less gleamy and cheerful now that I can see what is really going on.  
I lean against a fluted pillar, that is standing as abandoned as me. I do not expect my betrothed to ask me for a dance, with that lame leg of his. The Prince of Moldavia seems still less lonely than I, though. He must be sharing some formidable jest with Maria, my cousin and lady-in-waiting, for she is crying from laughter and her face is beet-red. That foreboding in my stomach from earlier comes rushing back once again as I see them so close, blushing like two lovebirds. I do not see why I should be jealous or even displeased by this. I never even fancied the man, the handfast was my father's decision from the start and he already has a wife anyway.  
It is only my pride stinging tonight, just as Mihnea said that it would, for apparently not even a plump man with a lame leg would desire me. I look longingly at the distant dancing pairs, and I wish I was far away, far far away. If only the river could take me as far as my aunt had promised, I would throw myself from my room's window in a heartbeat, but I know that my corpse shan't go further than my feet can already take me, before someone rescues my lifeless body from the waters. It is pointless. Wherever I turn, it's a dead end.  
"Are you leaving us already?" A voice with a strong foreign accent replaces the river's sweet calling in my mind. It takes me a moment to realize that I am not alone. "I was hoping to have a dance with you, if you will honor me."  
I blink, astonished. It's the Judge Royal, Ștefan Báthory, standing before me, his right hand outstretched for me to take it. I murmur something that I cannot recall ever saying, and slowly take his hand.  
The dances are still fast, for the Voivode wouldn't allow the musicians to play anything less than utterly joyful tonight, but for some reason I feel the earth slow down around the two of us. I am entranced, as I am when I have one of my visions. It is only a dance, but I cannot rid myself of this feeling of inevitability. It is like my fate revealing itself all at once, so clearly that I can almost grasp it, and yet I do not understand what role this man is going to play in it.  
"I do not wish to sound disrespectful or indelicate, but I am more than just smitten with you, my lady." He leans slightly over me and softly whispers these words to my ear as we are dancing at an incredibly slow pace. Unlike my aunt, and many other women, I am not capable of reading through a man's heart. I have a naive nature, and I am utterly unexperienced too. He is handsome, though, and his attention flatters my vanity. I do not mind it at all. If anything, I like it.  
"I wonder how can the Prince leave a maiden like you all by herself." His words are salt in the wound that Ștefan cel Mare has opened in my pride. I smile bitterly at him. "He has found another maiden that he wishes to entertain."  
My dance partner seems sincerely surprised. He blinks at me and makes a show of looking around us. "Another maiden? But I don't see one half as lovely as you here."  
I giggle against his shoulder, as I think that I will forget about Maria and the Prince now. It's pointless, and I no longer care as long as a man so powerful and charming as the Judge Royal deems me worthy of such words.  
His deft dancing footsteps draw me to a darkened corner between the hall's door and a rock pillar nearby. We are shrouded in darkness and unseen by everyone here, I realize, as I feel my pulse quicken at once. "Besides, you are a very singular maiden, are you not?" He observes, sliding the wisp of a lock that is tumbling down from my headdress through his fingers.  
"I am a princess, my lord, although you have never addressed me as such." Even though I am relishing a member of the Hungarian most notable family's courtship like any giddy girl, I shan't allow him to set himself higher than me. I am Erzsébet of the Drăculești, and I am no ordinary maiden. I am Ileana Cosânzeana's daughter. Daughter and grand-daughter to dragons. But all this, I cannot say to him.  
Ștefan Báthory's lips turn downward and remain still, as he bows so deeply that his proud forehead could almost brush against my fingers. "I am sorry, Princess. Certainly I am not the man who wishes to question your position, since it is me who has placed your father on the throne of Wallachia." He says, gravely, straightening himself.  
"The throne is his by right. We are grateful for your support, but he is meant to rule here and shield the country against the Ottoman's invasion." I shrink back, suddenly repulsed by this man who thinks he has the right to treat us as his vassals. Somewhere along the speech, I break off, though. I cannot bear to say such things when I know deep down that his rule is meant to last so little.  
The Judge Royal gives a grimace of apology. "Pray forgive me, you are right. I have fought by your father's side and I stood witness to a most fierce warrior's prowess. I would not want to fight a battle where he is my enemy for who knows if I would survive it."  
You would not, I know, but I hush and let him continue. "I do not question your ancestry. I know how powerful your name is, trust me, I know. But that is not why I desire you. To a man as in love as I am, you will always be simply Erzsébet."  
I drop my gaze for I can no longer withstand all the passion and all the fire in his. I clasp my hands, as I feel my heart racing in my chest. I am utterly clueless as to what he might say next. He is as unpredictable as a raving madman to me. I am wondering if he is Zmeu, the man who will love the woman of water and fire that I am, and not the frail princess that the tale depicts.  
"You might be betrothed to another man, but we both know that he won't have you. He is very likely to wait for his lawful wife's death and then wed your handmaiden at this point, however foolish this may be. But I have been long widowed and no maiden, highborn or commoner, has ever made this impression on me. Besides, you are so young and wilfull. You can't want to become the wife of a man who can barely stand without a cane."  
He is cruel to say this, but he tells the truth. I do not wish to spend the rest of my life with a man like that. He is a royal prince of Moldavia and a good political match according to the Voivode's scheme, but the foolish ordinary maiden in me loathes the very idea of lying with Ștefan cel Mare. I keep silent, and do not utter a word to fan his ardor, although my red cheeks and bright wandering eyes are giving me away despite my silence.  
"Will you be my wife instead? Will you come to the Hungarian court with me?"  
Yes, my heart is singing, a thousand times yes, but I know better than to say so. "My father will forbid it. I know him and he shall never abide his plans to fail. Prince Ștefan is his cousin and he will cast his wife aside for me, if the Voivode will command him."  
He gasps and takes my hands in his, although I had tried to keep him at arm-lenght.  
He is beaming, as if he considers the marriage all but done already. "He won't refuse me. I warrant you, he shall allow the marriage."

 


	4. Chapter 4

_Poenari Castle, Wallachia, Winter 1476_

It is winter at last, but my heart has never felt more warm, not even in July. My Ștefan faced the Voivode, and asked for my hand. It took the Prince my father a whole week to think it through, but in the end he begrudgingly consented to the handfast.  
What else could he say? He himself has wedded a Hungarian maiden, and the Judge Royal has handed him the keys to Wallachia. Together they set a price for my dowry, and my aunt Alexandra had more than just a say in the matter as well.  
"He insisted that he would accept no ransom for the love of his life. It was the Hungarian ambassador who convinced him to stick to the tradition and take your dowry. A fool, indeed." My aunt sighs at my flushed and beaming face. I strain to keep still, while she is fixing my hair in the fashion of the Hungarian court, where I am to be escorted once we marry.  
"Do you think he will love me like Zmeu loved Ileana?" I ask, my voice crackling with expectation and my lips trembling.  
Aunt Alexandra's eyes stay downcast on my headdress. She wouldn't let anyone else do this but herself. I guess she is secretly bracing herself for the goobye. I know I shall weep rivers when the moment comes for us to part.  
"How would I know? All I know is that he was about to rebuff a princess' dowry, so he must be either very much in love with you or just utterly foolish. And if he is both... God spare you, niece."  
Her words make me so happy that I can hardly keep myself from jumping on my chair. My spirits take flight at the thought that my beloved will marry me for myself, and not for the name I bear or the wealth of my family.  
For some reason, though, my aunt cannot be completely glad of my joy. A shadow lurks behind her gray eyes. "Remember though, that Zmeu was a shapeshifter and so crafty that even Ileana would be fooled by him sometimes."  
I look at my own reflection through the looking glass before me, hoping to scry and catch a glimpse of my future with my husband. I have Ileana's sight, but all I see are my big and gleaming eyes under the candlelight, and my cheeks rosy and my lips full. All I see is a beautiful bride on the evening of her wedding, hopelessly in love. Perhaps even Ileana was just the same at the thought that she would soon be one with her own other-worldly lover.  
There is little to scry; I will make my own future, I decide, as I sit in front of the mirror and sense my aunt's discontent over the nape of my neck.  
And when the moment comes, I think that there is no one in this principality more handsome than my groom, Ștefan Báthory of Ecsed, Judge Royal of Hungary. He is the favorite of two kings, the King of Bohemia Vladislaus II, and the King of Hungary Matthias Corvinus. Our fate is greatness and I read it on his beaming face as I walk down the chapel's aisle arm in arm with my father, and not in a looking glass of sort.  
As I stand before the priest next to my husband-to-be, I can hear Maria Voichiţa gulping and sobbing at my back, her composure forgotten at last. I turn and realize that the entire front row is taken by the members of my household. First comes the Voivode my sire, who has escorted me to the altar like any maiden's father would. He looks grave and taken by God knows what musings, as always. Next to him stands my step-mother, the Princess Consort Ilona Szilágyi, a vision of beauty and grace in this court, and then the three Voivode's sons. First Mihnea my brother and the crown prince. He is tall, dark and clean-shaven for the occasion. I flash a smile in his direction, but it curdles on my lips as soon as he turns his intense gaze on me. His haunting eyes threaten to taunt my happiness, but only for a moment, for I soon look away.  
After him come my beloved step-brothers, Vlad and Mircea, clad in their best garments. They smile at me feebly and I think that they have never looked more princely than they do now.  
I am still certain that they will make us proud and I can see no dark shadow on them, which reassures me a great lot.  
At last, there are my aunt Alexandra and Ștefan III of Moldavia, who's decided to remain at our castle for a while longer than expected, claiming that he wants to make sure that the wedding would take place and that I would be happy with my new husband, before going back to his wife in Moldavia.  
I nod in his direction and he bows back, for we - of all the sly plots in this court - have sealed the most secret treaty. I am aware that he is procrastinating his departure for Maria, and he knows that I shall be happy with any man who's not him so, even if our marriage was unmade, it seems that the allegiance between Moldavia and Wallachia will prosper.  
Besides, Maria may be a bastard but she is Radu cel Frumos' blood beyond a doubt, thus a Drăculea through and through. Ștefan cel Mare might still take her to wife. She might still become the princess consort of Moldavia in the end. I truly wish so. Now that my own happiness is standing by my side and opening before me, I wish them all the happiness in the world as well.  
And my aunt is conveying a lot of mixed feelings in the grin that she spares me. She is saying something under her breath too, or perhaps just mouthing it for me to grasp it, but before I can understand anything, the priest demands silence in order to hear us exchanging our wedding vows and I have to turn to the altar again.  
The sunset washes over the entire place and everything is bathing in a warm, dying light.  
My aunt once told me that the dawn is the birth of all lives, whereas sunset brings the end.  
I find it odd though. This is not the end for me. If anything, it is a new beginning.

There is a little wedding feast thereafter, a modest thing to celebrate the wedding of Vlad Drăculea's daughter. All the boyars that were here with us the last time we feasted in this very hall, are all gone now. Most of them went back to their houses in the surly countryside, as soon as Father announced that I was to marry our honored guest, the Judge Royal, leaving our court half empty.  
Many of them did bear him no great love even before my marriage and yet, I cannot get rid of the notion that I've taken Father down from his throne with my own hands.  
I look at him from the high table, dark and brooding as ever. The Princess Consort sits at his side and does not dare to utter a word, dutiful and pliant as a lamb. Even the few kinsmen that he still trusted before are gone now. He has had them imprisoned or executed after Basarab Laiotă's defeat. Some he has killed himself on the field, for it seems that they betrayed him while the battle still raged and sided with the Basarab usurper.  
He does not trust anyone anymore. He has become a black mad dog who will bite the hand of his own allies before he turns to the enemies. I cannot help thinking that he yielded me to Ștefan Báthory on the sheer promise of Hungarian support against the Ottomans, for he's always known that Hungary and Bohemia together make a greater force than Moldavia ever will.  
Even if this is my wedding feast and my husband will take me to the Hungarian court as I've always wished, there is no merryment in the hall and I want to weep for my family's misfortune right now, for I've thought only about my own well-being, but never theirs, whom I'm leaving behind to face the upcoming disaster.  
"Why do you weep, my wife? Are you not happy?" My husband has seen my tears, the tears that I didn't even realize I was shedding before he'd tell me. I rub my face and wipe them away from my eyes hastily, afraid that anyone else would see them.  
"I am happy, the happiest. It is just the woodsmoke making my eyes water." I smile, as my chest aches at the thought that this is the first lie I've told my husband, the first of my wedding vows that I have broken already. My heart feels a little heavier when he glances at the great fire burning in the central stone hearth and believes me at once.  
After the feast, Ștefan will not wait until the morning to part. He intends to reach Hungary in a three-day progress and present me to King Matthias' court. He says we will sleep along the way and I will be just fine in my litter with servants to attend my every need.  
My aunt thinks this is unacceptable, for it goes against the traditions of our ancestors that a man and his wife would not spend their wedding night in the same bed but on horseback.  
It's my father who has the last say, though, and my husband has his way in the end. At least, I consider, I will be spared the shame of a bedding, a lowborn custom that awaits all the newlyweds in our country and that sadly, even the highborn cannot escape.  
So, as it turns out, I have to pack my things in an awful unnerving haste and bid my farewells a day sooner than I expected.  
"He truly is as mad as I thought, God keep you." My aunt complains, as she is holding me so tightly that I can barely breathe. I laugh at her, although my eyes are filled with tears and there is no stopping them now. And yet when I look up at her through my tears, I see that her eyes are as dry as sand.  
"Here, sweetheart. Take these. I want you to have them. You have the gift and I have taught you how to read them."  
I gape at the little pack of cards that she is handing me. I recognize the tarots, the Turkish cards that predict future. I wonderingly take them in my hands and slide them in my purse, to prevent Father from noticing.  
"I shall write to you every day and ask for your counsel." I am almost praying to her to be my guidance even when she's so far away. I don't know what I'll do without her by my side.  
"I shall read your letters willingly, but you have no further need of my or anyone else's counsel, Erzsébet. You have chosen your own fate."  
"What did you say earlier, before the wedding?"  
She smiles, drawing a finger to her lips as if bidding me to keep the secret. "I asked Ileana to watch over you when I could not." This she says in a whisper, and then out loud for everyone to hear she adds, "God bless you, my darling, and give you joy."  
Maria, at aunt Alexandra's side, is sobbing as she would at my deathbed. I take her in my arms, this cousin of mine. I will miss her but I have foreseen her fate with the Prince of Moldavia. She's certain to find joy with him, and this helps me putting the grief of parting from her aside.  
I curtsey to my father when our embrace is broken and bow for my step-mother's blessing. "Take care, dear daughter. I am sure you shall shine for wit and beauty at my cousin's court. Give him my best regards when you see him."  
I nod slowly, struck numb all of sudden. It's as if I am going through a long procession of ghosts that I will never see again.  
Father's lips are frosty and stern under his thick raven mustache, his forehead as high and as proud as ever. His eyes, though, betray him. I know he regrets letting me go too, although I know it's not for myself. He senses the peril ahead as much as I do for I recognize my same dark knowledge in his eyes. "Farewell, Erzsébet. Do not ever forget the great name that you bear."  
At these words, I just know that my visions and my dreams did not deceive me after all. He is alive and he came back victorious from the battle, he's won the throne of Wallachia back. All the same, I know that this is the very last time I'll see my father. I flinch at his words, but I say nothing. I must nod and walk past him, for all the words are stuck in my throath.  
Neither Vlad nor Mircea show the hint of a tear. They are hardened by war now, and they won't cry anymore over a goodbye. I curtsey to them as well, just as I would before two princes. Vlad and I exchange a special glance. This may be a boy of eleven now, but something about the way he holds himself tells me that he might even grow into a voivode of Wallachia one day. Or perhaps it is just me, so fearful and silly that I believe I am seeing hints of the fate that awaits us all where there's nothing.  
Of course, I can't be less than utterly dramatic when it comes to facing Mihnea either. He stares at me, and says nothing.  
"Fare you well, brother." A sense of dread seizes me as soon as I speak these formal words and drop in my curtsey to the crown prince of Wallachia. He lifts me again with one hand, and we share a single moment of silence as a light snow flurries about us. I know that this is not a farewell at all. I know that I shall see him again, and yet I cannot help feeling like this is the last I see of my big brother. Who knows how the world will be when we'll meet again.  
Perhaps I will be different too, and him as well.  
"Next time I see you, I shall be the Voivode of our country, Erzsébet." He whispers to my ear, too faint for anyone but me to hear him. I swallow my fears down. I have never tried to foresee my brother's future, but if there is something that I have learned in the last year of my life, is that one's fate can never be wholly foretold. One vision does not exclude another.  
They could both equally happen, and they aren't bound to happen at the same time.  
I trust my brother's words, though. I go against my own guts and my notion that Vlad shall be the next Voivode, but I take Mihnea's words as truth. I smile feebly, my heart is leaden with loss, but I don't promise anything in return. I still do not know the price I will have to pay for the last oath I kept. I cannot risk upsetting the world's balance once more.  
"You are our father's son, after all." I allow, dismally.

I sit in my litter surrounded by three serving women. They are not truly ladies-in-waiting, and they surely do not look the part, but my husband assures me that I'll have plenty at court. I dismiss them once they lay the headdress to one side and help me out of the heavy wedding gown, my mother's. I lay down in the canopy bed inside the huge double-decked carriage which my husband has wrongly dubbed a litter.  
I have travelled in a litter as a little girl, but they were small and uncomfortable compared to this one. I sneak between the fresh silk sheets and wait in silence. I hope for a visit from my husband but he does not come. He is riding at the head of a small army. As I glance outside the wheelhouse's window, I see a dozen wagons rattling before and behind me.  
He is taking all the soldiers back to Hungary too, those who had followed him and fought against Basarab Laiotă to put my father on his rightful throne. He is leaving Father in the hands of the boyars who despise him. They are waiting to have him alone so they can aim straight for his neck and then slaughter one another to seize the throne like dogs over a bone. I see it all so clearly now.  
I beckon a guard riding by the wheelhouse's window, he draws near through the snow until he is in earshot, then lifts his visor to speak. "What is it, my lady?"  
"I should like to have a word with the Judge Royal. Tell him that." This is my first command as the wife of the third most powerful man in Hungary after the King himself and the vice-regent, the Palatine, so it tastes new on my lips.  
Although I was born a princess of Wallachia, I could scarcely boss people around in my own castle. My father and my brothers held that privilege. And even when they rode out to battle, it was my dear aunt or the Princess Consort who ran the household in their stead.  
When my husband comes to me, he finds me sitting in the bed, my hands folded on my lap. He smiles at me and comes to sit by the bedside. "Can't you sleep?" He asks, as gentle as any knight, but his behavior does not look very knightly to me. He is depriving my father of his precious men, stealing me away from my own household through the night like a common thief, and leaving my bed cold and empty on our wedding night.  
"The rattling of the wagons and the groaning of the wheelhouse are deafening, of course I can't sleep." I say, crossly. I have heard of brave warriors who can sleep on horseback. Even Attila had to on multiple occasions, but I still wonder how anyone would manage to fall asleep in such conditions.  
"I am sorry, Erzsébet. It could not be delayed." Ștefan Báthory replies in a sigh.  
"Why not? We needed only to wait until the morning. And your men... why are you taking them back to Hungary? What if my father has need of them and..." I break off, and a vision fills me with horror. He will have need of them, but he'll be alone, a cornered black beast bleeding to death. My breath catches in my throath and suddenly I am too overwhelmed by dread to speak. My husband puts an arm around my waist and rocks me a little.  
"Their duty here is done. We fought to restore your father to his throne and now they need to go back to their families too. Surely you understand that an army has to be paid? I cannot afford it any longer to keep them here, and now that I have you there is truly no reason for us to stay. We will be happy in Hungary, my lovely Erzsébet." He draws back of a few inches and looks at me, vaguely smiling. His eyes linger on my face and then my hunched shoulders and then my breasts and belly, but I see no desire in them. He is not prying for lust nor leering at my body like any man would. It looks more like an old sorcerer scrying in a mirror, hoping to catch a glimpse of what's to come.  
I can barely recognize the handsome fiery man who drew me away from the hall a fortnight ago and marveled at how the Prince of Moldavia could neglect a maiden like me. How is he any different now?  
"Won't you stay with me tonight?" I whisper, ashamed that I should even stoop so low as to ask it of him myself.  
He smiles at me like a lord with a purse full of coins would smile at a beggar child.  
"Rest now, my wife, the road is still long. We shall have our wedding night at the King's court." He turns and flashes one last glance in my direction, then mounts his warhorse again and rides away.


	5. Chapter 5

_ Buda Castle, Kingdom of Hungary, January 1477 _

 

My husband the Judge Royal and I walk handfast through the great archway of the largest gate I've ever seen, as we have just dismounted from our horses and litters.  
I should keep my chin up and my gaze steady before me, but I cannot help looking around and marveling at the grandeur of this place.  
My father's castle in Wallachia is stark and bare in appearance compared to this one.  
The facade is decorated with three statues of royal ancestors who look down on us with their icy stares. Just above the archway I recognize the King's personal arms, the Hunyadi quartered coat-of-arms, crowned alongside a sigil I yet cannot place, all set in the finest marble I have ever seen. Only the old chapel in Poenari Castle could count a few elements of marble, for all the rest was set in the raw Carpathian stone.  
The entire construction is so huge that I doubt any man could possibly know every room and passageway in it. Later, my husband would explain to me that it looks so stately and huge because there is not a single palace, but a few.  
He is amused by the astonished grimace I make upon learning that the Fresh Palace and the Matthias Palace are only two of those. My charming husband leads the way through the three-sided courtyard, his trusted companions and my ladies-in-waiting trail behind us.  
We walk through so many antechambers and passageways that I have lost count, but at last a carved wooden door opens before us and I can hear the royal chamberlain's voice before I can see anything. My breath is taken away as soon as I step inside. Everything in this room is shining under a heavenly light coming through the tall bay windows lining along two of the four walls. Although the room looks more than kingly to me, my husband informs me that this is only the "Small" throne room, and that there is another which is named "Grand" instead.  
"His Lordship, the Judge of the Country Báthory István of Ecsed," the chamberlain cries out to the lords and the ladies who were waiting for us, in perfect Hungarian. "And his wife, Princess Erzsébet of the House of Drăculești."  
My understanding of the language is pretty adequate, I dare say. My good step-mother has been teaching me her native tongue from my childhood, as well as Latin and German.  
The King who sits the golden throne on the raised dais at the far edge of the room is a comely man with a high forehead, a thin hunched nose and long chestnut hair, like Ilona and her sons. There is familiarity in this man's face, although I have never seen him before. The woman sitting by his side, I ween, must be the queen of his court. She has a plump lovely face, and her gaze is kind and benevolent.  
"My friend!" The King rises to his feet, steps down from the dais and claps my husband on both shoulders. We were on our knees, as it is custom before a member of the royal family, but he urges us both to stand.  
"I did send you to the wolves and you came back with the finest prize!" His Majesty cups my husband's face in his hands, both of them are beaming gleefully. I wonder if he means my family when he says "wolves". I must look very bewildered and cross for the King giggles at me, and soon the rest of his court joins him in his amusement.  
I look around and these are no ordinary lords. Some of them might not be highborn lords at all. There are poets, musicians, jesters, singers, even play-actors to entertain the royal court.  
The Hungarian court truly is as lively and charming as my step-mother had always described it. "From now on, you are my niece, Erzsébet. Wife to my greatest friend and member of my own household." The Hunyadi King kisses me on both cheeks, but it is so odd that a royal monarch should greet a lesser subject like this that I recoil at first.  
At any rate, this reminds me of what I had promised to my step-mother before parting.  
"It is my honor, Your Majesty. I should be glad to inform you that the Princess Consort of Wallachia has willed me to give you her warmest regards."  
The smile on his face softens and his eyes become suddenly watery. I am astonished, that a man in his position should show his feelings so easily. And to his entire court...  
"Ha, my dear cousin... Is she well? Oh, never mind that. We shall have plenty time to speak this evening at dinner. Until then, you should refresh yourselves and visit the chambers where you'll be accommodated."  
The chambers, of course, are as lovely as the rest of the palace. Or the palaces, as my husband corrects me. We are given a set of chambers next to the royal apartments in the southwestern wing of the castle.  
Only the Palatine and the King's own rooms are finer than ours.  
I walk slowly towards the bay windows of my new bedchamber and glance outside, expecting to see someone. Naturally, no one was calling for me, and yet I believe I've heard something.  
"Do these rooms suit your taste, my lady?" Ștefan asks me, almost as a jape. These rooms are more than I could have ever wished for in Wallachia, where my father had been nothing but a disgraced warlord for years.  
"They are beautiful." I reply without turning from the window. I cannot stop looking out of it wonderingly. There must be something out there, beyond the tall hedges of the broad courtyard, now all shrouded by snow. Else I wouldn't be so fatally attracted to it.  
My husband draws me to him by the waist and I am facing him before I can even realize it.  
Our foreheads are touching and I can feel my cheeks alight at once. This ought to be the first time he approaches me with such tenderness since the wedding.  
The first weeks of our marriage have been nothing but riding in the snow and occasional cold meals together. He is smiling at me, as I can see my reflection in his clear brown eyes.  
"I must see the Lord Palatine now, and then I'll come to escort you to dinner." He whispers his instructions as a lover would whisper his passion to a lady love.  
I nod, but I am not particularly disappointed. I wish some time alone as well.  
"And tonight, after the dinner with the King, I will want to speak to you."  
He goes, and I am left alone with the calling that only exists within my own head.  
I wonder what it is that he means to tell me. We have been married for a fortnight now, and he has never come to ask me anything beside how I was faring.  
My room has a pretty round table with sharpened quills, pots of ink and everything that one should need to write a letter. There is, naturally, a soft bed with feather pillows and a canopy of cloth of gold fit for a queen. I am admiring the beautifully colored tapestries on the walls when an entourage of ladies slips into my presence. They all curtsey deeply and I nod in acknowledgement. The first among them takes a step forth to speak.  
"If it please Your Grace, Her Royal Majesty the Queen has ruled that you, now member of her household, shall have your own ladies-in-waiting at court. She has sent us to attend your needs, to ride beside you, sew with you, to carry your messages and walk behind you in the gardens whenever you require it. We solemnly swear not to betray your faith or your secrets. We shall behave as models of respectability and give you no cause of displeasure."  
I stare at them, and count five of them overall. The ladies of my own household, all well-bred and virtuous in their matching gowns of silk. I should be happy of such service, but I find that I miss my cousin, Maria Voichiţa, so I only smile out of courtesy.  
"I shall thank the Queen myself later. All of you should join me tonight for dinner. I have been here only for a few hours and I am afraid I will disgrace myself in front of the King."  
The maid who seems to be the party's mouthpiece silences the others' giggles, and curtseys again. "It shall be our pleasure and honor to instruct you in the Hungarian ways, Your Grace."  
I spend the next three hours trying to memorize the names and the coat-of-arms of every important lord and lady that I would meet that night, and all the King's kinsmen and -women as well. When I see my husband waiting for me on the threshold, offering me his arm to escort me to dinner, my head is dizzy with all the names and all the sigils that I still cannot remember.  
The dinner is served in the Royal Dining Hall, in the northern wing of the castle.  
This is far from being a private dinner among royals, though. My husband at my side explains to me that the King turns every meal into a feast and every courtier is welcomed to sit at the long trestle table in the middle of the hall. I note six beautiful windows and the Buda hills beyond the glass. Although the room is full of people and the poets are starting to sing on their notes already, I hear the calling from earlier resounding even louder here.  
These soft words are not swallowed by any noise. All my attention is focused on trying to understand what it says, so I don't hear the King when he invites me and Ștefan to join him and the Queen on the royal dais. I must leave my ladies-in-waiting behind for they cannot follow me to this most honorable seat. My chief lady-in-waiting, whose name is Catherine, reassures me with a small glance and a nod. They will sit at the long table with my husband's grooms and the other courtiers, and I will be just fine for I am a fast learner.  
We take our seats at the left hand side of the King, and on the right there is, already seated, another couple. The man is surely elderly, his eyes little and shiny, and his limbs are still somehow strong. He reminds me of my father's prickly old boyars. At the thought of them doing what they like in my country, my chest tightens and I am suddenly sickened.  
I bit my lips, as I try my best to keep the thought abay. This man must be Michael Ország, the King's Palatine and vice-regent, if anything unfortunate were to happen to the King.  
His wife, whose name overlaps with a thousand others in my mind, looks even older than him. She shows me a crooked smile and I politely nod at the gesture.  
"This is the Lord Palatine, Michael Ország de Gút, Princess. We would all be lost if it weren't for him. And here is his wife, the lady Barbara Rozgonyi." The King introduces his right hand and his wife, and I bow my head, for I know that in this foreign land, I am inferior to them.  
The Palatine regards me sternly, and he doesn't seem very pleased with me. "Your beauty is beyond compare. One would scarcely believe that you are that man's daughter."  
I freeze in my seat, and suddenly I cannot bear his little eyes on my face anymore. I strain to remember my aunt's words as I struggle not to let his remark daunt me and keep a straight face. I am Ileana Cosânzeana's daughter, a Drăculea through and through, and a little wrinkly man will not make me feel ashamed because of it, no matter how high he stands in this foreign court. I even manage to smile at him and right now, I know that no maiden in this court is lovelier than I. I can read it in this bitter man's eyes. "But I am." I remind him keenly, before the first of the twenty courses is served before us.  
He lowers his head and smirks to himself, apparently delighted to a jape that only he is privy of. "Yes, yes. You undoubtedly are. My sympathies."  
"What?" I mutter, turning to my husband. Why would this stranger offer me his sympathies right now? Even the King and Queen look stiff and uneasy in their seats, but Ștefan cups my hand in his and fix his eyes in mine, willing me to let it slip for now.  
Even though the King entertains a lovely conversation and the musicians are playing pleasant tunes, I can barely stomach each morsel that I bring to my lips.  
My head is swirling and now it is not only the mysterious distant voice anymore, but the Palatine's too, being all enigmatic in his response. I know that they are hiding something from me and I am too frighted to find out what it is about.  
"And are your new rooms to your liking, Erzsébet?" I shouldn't be surprised that Queen Beatrice of Aragon and I are in first name terms already, but I am. After all, this is not the cold and forlorn Wallachia. And this queen, especially, has fire in her veins, her sire being a Spaniard king. "Yes, Your Majesty. They are most lovely."  
"I knew it! I have given you the rooms by the Danube, the very ones where I slept before I was crowned." Which isn't very long ago, anyway. She has been crowned scarcely a fortnight before I arrived here, as King Matthias' third wife. That isn't what strikes me most about her words, though.  
"The Danube, you say?" I repeat, resting the fork in my plate.  
"Yes, of course, the Danube. It is the next thing to the sea you get here, and I would only sleep if I could hear its mumbling. Unless it keeps you awake at night?"  
I shake my head at once. Of course it was the Danube all along, the river, the water, my element. "Not at all. On the contrary, I shall be fast asleep."

After dinner, Catherine and my other ladies-in-waiting all help me to unlace my gown of ivory silk, so that I can step out of it and slip into my nightgown for the night.  
I lean against the pillows, too tired to stay up. Only Catherine and a lady named Karla remain in the room to stoke up the hearth. They compliment my doing as I wait earnestly for my husband. I do not want him like a wife wants her husband, I just need to be made privy of whatever they are hiding from me.  
And he comes. With a beckoning hand he dismisses my ladies, they bid us goodnight and we are left alone at last.  
"You were truly wondrous. The entire court likes you well already, and poets write songs for you. Do you know how they call you?" His voice is thick with pride and a hint of mockery as he lay in the bed by my side. In another time, maybe, my childish vanity would have been flattered to learn that they have given me a title already, but right now I have too many pressing concerns to care about the shallowness of people.  
"How?" I ask flatly, too eager to discard the frivolous matter and come onto the next one.  
"They say you are Ileana reborn, and that I am your Făt-Frumos!" Ștefan is enthusiast, but my silence smothers his high spirit. I have no time for this nonsense.  
"What did the Palatine mean before? You know what he meant, surely? What was that talk of my father all about?"  
My husband's face darkens. The Danube is whispering to my ears somewhere beyond the Buda hills. "I meant to tell you tonight, remember? I need to talk to you."  
"Then go on. Tell me." I screw up my courage as he tries to take me in his arms. I shrink back, my eyes fixed on his face.  
"Your father... The Prince Voivode Vlad of Wallachia is dead, Erzsébet. His own boyars betrayed him, he fell victim to an ambush on the road between Bucharest and Giurgiu. He thought it was a local grievance and rode out to sedate it, but they killed him and..."  
I can sense that he is trying to hide the painful details from me. I grip his hand steadily and shake it. "And?"  
"They surrendered his body to the Turks, his head has been mounted on a spike on Constantinople's walls for everyone to see that Drăculea is dead."  
He does not touch me, he does not try to comfort me. After all, he must know in his heart that none of this would have happened if Father still had the Hungarian army to defend him, the army that he retreated when we left.  
I remain silent for an awful long while, absorbed by my own musings. This is worse that anything I could have possibly imagined. I can almost see my father's severed head dipped in tar to preserve it longer on Costantinople's walls. I can almost hear the Ottoman merchants and their women point at it, cursing and laughing at their sworn enemy's shame.  
Perhaps this is the price for saving the Princess Consort's life. I wonder if my father will ever forgive me for the choice I made that day, for having traded his wife's life for his.  
Most of all, I wonder if my aunt Alexandra deems it a fair deal, a brother for a sister-in-law.  
"Who's claimed the throne?" I ask, in a faint whisper that chills the air in the room.  
The Voivode appointed Mihnea as his heir before his death, and the throne should be his by right, but this is an uprising and I do not expect those faithless men to apply to the late Voivode's last will. It can't be him who sits the throne of our father, nor Mircea nor Vlad.  
My husband looks up briefly and our gazes meet for a moment. What he says afterward is scarcely a surprise to me. "Basarab Laiotă rules Wallachia now."


	6. Chapter 6

_Buda Castle, Kingdom of Hungary, Winter 1477_

 

As it turns out, I have been lied to on various matters. First, Father died shortly after our departure, and not three days ago, like Ștefan has claimed. Everybody here knew it; the King, the Queen, the Palatine, his wife, even my ladies.  
Secondly, he was handed to the Turks alive. He did not die in battle, betrayed and murdered by his own countrymen. He died a captive in Ottomans' claws, and the mere thought of the tortures that they might have inflicted upon him makes me shudder.  
It is no use asking of my brothers and my aunt and everyone that I left behind. They will be vague and leave me with nothing but more unanswered questions.  
On yet another matter my husband has lied to me, though. This court does not love me at all. They curtsey to me unwillingly and their smiles are fake. They whisper curses behind my back as soon as I step past them. I have never been Ileana reborn to them. They call me the Devil's Spawn, the Demon Bride, now. They speak ill of my family whenever they like and the King, who calls himself my uncle, will let them.  
Following my father's downfall, that I had long foreseen, I turn a cold shoulder to my husband and every other in this court of liars and cravens.  
My ladies have come to loathe being in my waiting, for I do not ever honor them with as much as a word. When they carry my train I walk at the same speed as if there were no one behind me, so they have to scuttle along to keep up with me. I sit through my meals silent and hard-faced like a stone and I do barely acknowledge whoever comes to pay their homages to me. I wear black in mourning for my father, and as pale as I am, everyone must think that I look a lot like a corpse myself.  
I am poor company, as my beloved Maria used to say, and I am even worse than that now.  
Whenever I step into a room, next to my husband, any merryment ceases. They all secretly feel responsible for what has happened to the Voivode of Wallachia and to my family. Because of this, no one dares ever to cross gazes with me. I have become like Mihnea, and I find myself vaguely amused by the notion that I now resemble whom I used to reproach.  
"Princess, my dear," Queen Beatrice begins one day, as we are walking side by side on the river bank. The Danube is frozen and we leave footprints in the snow as we walk by, our ladies-in-waiting trailing behind and chatting amiably among each other.  
She, who once used to call me by my first name, addresses me now with a title that I no longer have. If Vlad Drăculea is no longer the Prince Voivode, then I am no princess either.  
The Queen is with child, three months into her time now. A child conceived on their wedding night, a blessing from God himself and she is beside herself with joy.  
The King already fathered a child three years ago, a bastard that he acknowledged from his mistress, but this one whom the Queen is carrying is his trueborn heir.  
"It breaks my heart to see you like this every day. You are so young and you should always smile." She says pitifully as if I were her little sister. I keep my blank eyes on the snow beneath my feet. I am not really paying attention to her. I am rather thinking that the black skirt of my gown looks funny against the white of the snow on the ground.  
"Should I?" I repeat, absent-mindedly. The Queen takes me by the arm, suddenly putting her grave face aside. She is now smiling at me as if she would share a secret with me.  
"Will you smile if I tell you who is coming to live with us?"  
I look up at her at once. Her round face is beaming and I am slightly affected by her radiance. I wistfully think of Mihnea, and my step-brothers as well, I think foolishly of being reunited with my cousin Maria, and my dear aunt. I would let myself weep into her arms now and forget my pride. We would mourn for the Voivode together. I blink my tears away and reject my own thoughts. "Who?"  
"Princess Ilona Jusztina Szilágyi, your step-mother and my husband's cousin!" She announces, triumphantly, and clearly expects me to share her excitement.  
Of course, I should have imagined that it was the Princess Consort. Her cousin King Matthias Corvinus surely would want her back at court now that the tyrant who held her prisoner in a foreign land of savages for so long is dead. Although her presence will lift my spirit in a court where everyone believes that the world is rid of a devil now that Father has died, I cannot be completely happy that it's her either. She's a daughter of Hungary, she was born here and my aunt Alexandra always said that she walked to her wedding like a woman attending her own funeral.  
"Isn't my aunt the Dowager Princess Alexandra coming too?" I ask tentatively. For someone in my position, I surely do keep a lot of hopeless wishes in my heart.  
The Queen shakes her head, she seems aggrieved to be the one who tells me this. "No, Erzsébet. She has fled as soon as the boyars elected Basarab cel Bătrân as Voivode. Some say that she has taken sanctuary with the child..." She breaks off, as if she has said more than she would allow herself to say.  
I take her hands closely in mine and force her to look at me. My eyes are wide and feverish, and the dark circles under them make me look older than my actual age.  
"What child?" I instinctively think of Mircea, the little boy of ten, my father's second son from Princess Ilona.  
Beatrice of Aragon is distressed but she tells me anyway. I see now that she has taken a liking to me, despite what anyone else says about my wicked blood. "Your father's child and Ilona's. Your aunt smuggled him away even before word arrived that the Voivode was dead... She must have known that they were lost somehow, and smuggled the younger child into the Bishopric of Oradea, where she has claimed sanctuary for herself."  
She knew, I realize, astounded. She is a soothsayer, she has taught me everything I know of spells and potions and rituals. Of course she must have known long before everyone else. My heart is a little lighter now, for I know at least that she and Mircea are safe. Even faithless savages like my father's boyars know better than to break sanctuary. Anyone who seeks sanctuary is under the keeping and protection of God himself, and they will not dare to defy it.  
I smile at the Queen, the first smile I have shown anyone in weeks. She seems delighted to see it. She will tell me everything I want to know now because, for some reason, she must consider me her dearest friend. Perhaps she dislikes this court and misses her homeland as much as I do. "And what of my other brothers? Mihnea and Vlad?"  
"They are hiding, I suppose. Mihnea has asked for troops but the King won't send one man to help him. It is pointless butchery, he says. Vlad fights with his brother, I suppose he's his squire now. Mihnea has made him his heir for as long as he fathers a boy. He has fought like the Devil himself to save your father but he hadn't the men... So he is hiding now and waiting until he can muster an army so that he can rise again."  
They did not help the father, so why should they help the son?  
I no longer smile for the Queen now, but wistfully at myself.  
Queen Beatrice crosses herself, like the pious woman that she is. "He has sworn to kill them all. He will avenge his father and lay waste to Wallachia if he has to, until every man who has played them false is dead."  
I feel my hands itch. This most ingenuous Queen got to be hoping that my brother never finds his allies and that he never rises again because, when he's done with the usurper of Dănești and the boyars who have put him on the throne, he will come for Hungary too.  
For my husband especially, who's run away in the night with the Prince's daughter and all of his men.  
I am not horrified at this, although I should. In truth, I wish I could be with him, I wish I could share the shame and the grief with him, and most of anything, I wish that I could join him in the slaughter of the men who have betrayed us.  
Perhaps, _I will_. And if I fail, I'll think of something else, but I must see where this road will take me first.  
"Forgive me, Your Majesty. I must see the King." I claim, urgently. The Queen and the ladies-in-waiting look startled at my hasty dismissal, but none of them delay me.  
Catherine sets after me, as if she would follow me, but I command her to stay where she is.  
As I walk swiftly through the length of the passageways leading to the Royal apartments, I am feeling fresh with resolve and fiery with excitement. My father is dead, my family no longer rules Wallachia, my husband hates me since he won't lay with me and he's probably only wedded me to hold me here, a valuable hostage in Hungary's claws, but I might as well make the best out of my own misfortune.  
Before going to meet the King, I head for my own rooms. I set myself to rights, change out of my dark mourning gown, and don a beautiful gown of brocade and cloth-of-gold that my aunt had made for my last name-day. I take off the dark blue veil, and put on my tall headdress instead. I move back from the silvered looking glass to take a better look at my slender figure. My old forgotten beauty and youth still bless me. I know I shall have great need of both, now more than ever.  
My husband the Judge Royal of Hungary greets me with a bewildered look as I enter the room. He cannot believe that I have put my mourning aside already.  
I sink into a curtsey, not for him nor the Palatine, but the King who is in this same room. I have come in the middle of a council seat, it would seem. I do not care. I require audience and I shall have it.  
"Lady Erzsébet? This is a private council, you may not preside." The Palatine, Michael Ország, does not waste time on curtseys. I mull over the title of lady that he addresses me with now. King Matthias I ignores his trusted advisor, and comes to meet me on the treshold. "Looking so unexpectedly gleeful today!" He notices, as I had hoped that he would. He offers me his hand and I lightly brush my lips on it.  
"How may I serve you, niece?" He prudently calls me niece, so that he avoids using the title of Princess, that I no longer have, and he tactfully does not demean me with the style lady either. I do not lift my head or my gaze. I remain still, like a cautious and attentive hind, even as I speak the words. "I shall be pleased to have a word with you in private, sire."  
A frosty silence descends above our heads all at once. "Of course, of course", the King agrees at last, breaking the spell in which the council room has fallen.  
The Palatine starts as if he would complain, but the King's gaze is steady. He is smiling, like no man could ever defy him. The Palatine flashes me one sullen look, bows to the King and goes out of the room. My husband remains where he is. Perhaps he thinks that there must be no secret between man and wife. Matthias Corvinus seems amused by our exchange of puzzled looks.  
"Marriage has its load of secrets too, my lord. Bring her no ill will, I shall send for you and the Lord Palatine as soon as your wife has told me everything."  
Ștefan Báthory of Ecsed feigns his amusement, bows gallantly to the both of us, and leaves.  
King Matthias smiles at me when we're alone, takes my hand and draws it through his arm, leading me to the nearest window. He glances thoughtfully outside, as I keep my eyes set on him. Although he seems unaware, I know that he can feel my eyes on him.  
"You have put your mourning aside already? It's not been two months." The King considers, still holding my hand tucked under his arm. He must believe that I have forgotten my father and my family already.  
He must believe that I am of his own household now. I cannot let him see that my heart is black, as black as the tar on my father's severed head.  
Besides, he must see that I am beautiful. This can only be a weapon for a woman.  
"Mourning will not bring him back. I can only pray that he rests in peace. He is with my mother and my grand-father now."  
The King nods, although there is a little cunning smile on his face. He ought to be thinking that my entire family is burning in hell by now, and that no one of us shall ever see the gates of Heaven. I join him in his secret merryment. After all, he has the right of it.  
"You are beautiful, indeed. Black does not become you, and it is such a sad sight for us all."  
He glances away from the window at last, as he would rather relish my appearance instead. He is a connoisseur of beautiful things, as his wife, so it is only fair that they both like me so much.  
I bow as I accept the compliment, as the King goes on. "I shall allow a mass to be said for his soul every month for a year in the castle's chapel. All the court will attend. Your father was an exceptional man. Surely he had his ways, and he knew how to make people fear him, but no man could stand before him in battle. And God knows that the Ottomans will never find a sterner foe than him."  
Who knows? Mihnea is just as terrible as he was, especially when thwarted. "Thank you, my king. But although I am beyond grateful for your generosity, I must ask yet another thing from you."  
"You are married to one of the two most powerful men in my kingdom and you come to me? This must be truly an expensive thing you desire, my lady." He observes, his easy charming smile curves his fine lips slightly upward. I, on the other hand, cannot ignore that he has called me "my lady" to my face, even if we are alone.  
"My husband is loyal and affectionate to me, Your Majesty." I struggle to keep myself from laughing at my own lie. "But?" He volunteers, turning to face me, as he would know what I am thinking.  
"He will not raise a finger to help my brother take back his throne, our father's throne."  
I finish, and he pats my hand tucked under his arm, now warm against the velvet of his doublet. He seems untroubled, and leads me away from the window.  
"Perhaps you, Your Majesty, could send soldiers to him and let the treacherous boyars know that Hungary stands with the lawful heir..." The King's bitter smile suggests that I might as well hush now, since he couldn't help me, not even if he wanted to and I am only demeaning myself anyway.  
"My niece, I am so terribly sorry, but I need all my country's strength here and now. I have taken the fortress of Šabac from the Ottomans, and now I must keep it. They have grown bolder since Vlad Drăculea's death, and they fear nothing anymore. They were as much your father's enemies as they are mine. We are of the sacred Order of the Dragon, after all. I have made sure that your step-mother is safe, though. She is coming to live with us where nobody will do her harm or force her into marriage. I have sent to her and she is riding to us now, you knew this?"  
I picture the frail Princess Consort, now a Dowager Princess, ride on horseback like any man, as swift as the wind, fearing the revenge of Basarab Laiotă.  
I shake my head at the absurdity of such thought. She is very likely to come here in a litter escorted by an avanguard of her cousin's men, like I did, sullen and aggrieved to leave one son in a nunnery and the other in hiding with a claimant to the throne.  
"I knew, and you did indeed save her. But she is your kin more than she is mine... what about my own? What about my aunt and my brothers?"  
The King lowers his proud forehead, apparently sorry. All the same, I cannot promise that I bear him no ill will. I am raging and scorned at the thought that I have humiliated myself for nothing, and every new word from him makes a mockery of my grief. "This I can't grant you, niece. In everything else, I shall consent to your demands. You can take new gowns from the Queen's own wardrobe, I am sure she'll be glad to share jewels and silks with you. You are to be godmother to the son she's now carrying, a honor I had promised to Barbara Ország already. I am willing to take my word back. And a king never retreats his word, you ought to know, a king's honor is worth more than anything. But I will put it aside to please you. That honor is yours."  
Matthias Hunyadi's green eyes are shining like little emeralds, and his grip on my hand tightens a little. I look at him, my lips clenched for I will say no more. This road has led me nowhere.  
He wets his lips with the tip of his tongue as he is taking in the smile on my face, full of alluring promises. I must think again. Perhaps the road will not take me home, but it is still worth the try.


	7. Chapter 7

_Buda Castle, Kingdom of Hungary, Spring 1477_   
  
Months pass, and I become all but a queen myself in the Hungarian court. People still whisper behind their hands when I walk handclasped with the Queen, her swollen belly precedes her everywhere she goes now, but I no longer mind. They fear the influence I can wield on the King my uncle, and the Palatine is the first of them. Some fools blame it on witchcraft. They think the King is under a spell I did cast.  
They can't forget whose blood I have, and I am still the Demon Bride of the Judge Royal to them when I am not in earshot. I regard them coolly and I take pride from the King and Queen's favour all the same. I surround myself with my own court, young gentlemen and ladies that I find witty and amusing, quick-witted people who wouldn't waste their time giving credit to foolish tales of witchcraft and cursed blood, men who are eager to rise in the world. There's never a night when I do not dance with this or that nobleman.  
My husband does not seem to mind at all, and I am beginning to consider myself as a free woman. Once I thought that we could have been friends and lovers, but the fact that we aren't either does not bother me anymore. I only meet him at dinner, and sometimes he comes to share my bed. We have been married for months now, but he still hasn't bedded me properly, and I doubt he ever will at this point.  
Emeric Zápolya, a favourite of the King and part of my small circle as well, only confirms this one day. The man owes his entire fortune to the King's goodwill and benevolence on the Zápolya brothers, Emeric and Stephen. They are two young and bright men who always support the King's interests against the barons', even against the Palatine and my husband's. The younger of the two, Emeric, tells me that he knows why the Judge Royal won't bed me. Although he finds me lovely, although he smiles at me and always treats me kindly in front of others, he believes that the man who beds me will die shortly after. Besides, he does not really need a heir from me. He has one already from his late wife who shall inherit his titles and wealth when he's dead. I can scarcely believe Emeric when he tells me this, and I look over my shoulder to make sure that my ladies-in-waiting aren't listening. We are never allowed to meet alone, Emeric and I.  
My ladies are always present to protect me from slander. They probably believe that my maidenhead is cursed as well, but they are just bored lonely women and they'll believe anything that makes their days less dull. Ștefan Báthory, on the other hand, deems himself a learned and wise man but he'll believe the gossip and the superstition of washerwomen and peasants before he trusts his own wife. "He only needed you to bind your father to obedience, and now that he's not the Voivode anymore, his marriage to you is utterly useless. He'll have other women and put up the loving husband front with everyone else. And this is only now. Who knows that he won't change plans and declare your marriage null later on."  
The King's favourite explains, as if I wouldn't realize it by myself. I feel betrayed by the man I saw that night at the feast to celebrate my father's victory. It's only been a few months, but it seems a lifetime ago. He told me I was unique, singular and did not deserve the indifference of my husband-to-be. He said that he loved me for who I was, and not for the name I bear, my deceitful Zmeu. Ștefan Báthory has fooled the little girl that I once was, hopeful and giddy with love, but he won't fool me ever again. I am playing my own game now, and I am no longer a pawn in men's hands. "On what grounds?" I murmur harshly, our heads together over the table, drawing further suspicions. Emeric shrugs, as if a man as powerful as my husband doesn't even require a solid ground to cast a woman he no longer needs aside. "Witchcraft? He could say that your marriage was brought about by witchcraft and that he has been under your spell ever since. Half the court would believe him, do not doubt it.  
Not to mention that he hasn't bedded you, which could work to his advantage as well. If the marriage is not consummated, then it is no true marriage at all. And then there's..." He pauses and takes a deep breath, his deep voice thick with desire, "Adultery maybe?"  
I recoil and stare at him. "I am a maiden still, though. I am faithful to my husband. In body, if anything." Emeric nods, gravely.  
  
"I know. It's either one or another indeed. We can't know which course of action he will take. It depends on your conduct, I suppose. Certainly he is not going to claim that he has never bedded you once he's certain not to find you... untouched when he sends the women to inspect you." Inspect? Does he take me for a broodmare? Does he think that I will spread my legs and let some common hags of his pay creep their withered fingers between my thighs? I laugh out loud nervously, although I would rather rage and tear this place apart. The ladies-in-waiting, my step-mother the Dowager Princess and the Queen all turn to look at us, startled. Emeric does not look ashamed. He laughs along as if he had just said the funniest jape and then lies for me. "My apologies, ladies. I was just telling the Princess that her cousin Maria Voichița is alive and well, living now at the Moldavian court. She could not believe it!" I need all my will to keep an amused face, and hide my astonishment at this new notion.  
The ladies regard us suspisciously. My step-mother smiles softly at me and the Queen, of course, intervenes, glorious under the broadening bulge of her belly. "Yes, Erzsébet. Lord Zápolya is not lying. Your little cousin is safe in Moldavia under the protection of Ștefan cel Mare.  
Although she is safe from the uprising in Wallachia, I doubt she is gleeful, poor one. The Prince's wife Maria of Mangup has died, and now the whole court is in mourning." The Dowager Princess Ilona crosses herself for the soul of the friend that she once knew. I blink, with a stupid smile on my face. Emeric was staring at me even before I turned my astounded gaze on him. Maria might be in mourning for the late Princess right now, but I am sure she will be bubbling with joy in a while. After all, she is to be the next Princess Consort of Moldavia, once the year of mourning ends and the Prince can marry again. Emeric gets to his feet then, bows to all the ladies sewing in the room, and then comes to kiss my fingers. Against them I feel his warm breath, as he looks up at me with his mischievous blue eyes. The color is rising to my cheeks as I smile down on him and he whispers, "Will I see you at the masque?" The King has declared that tonight, after dinner, there will be a masque and all the court is bound to attend. He says it is to celebrate its own victory against the Ottomans and lenghty reign, but everyone at court knows that he's only doing this to please his cheerful mistress, Barbara Edelpöck, whom he has summoned to court alongside his four-year-old bastard, John Corvinus. Only when I nod, Emeric turns on his heels and leaves us. Queen Beatrice grins at me, as she leans against the back of her great chair, almost a throne, one hand on her growing belly. The ladies-in-waiting's chattering withers as soon as Lord Zápolya steps out of the room. They all turn to me, narrow-eyed as if they would pry the truth out of my flushed cheeks and half-smile.  
"Lady Mother, I shall write to Maria and bid her to pledge my sympathies to the good Prince. Is there something else you wish to let them know? I shall write it on your account in the same letter." I ask the Dowager Princess, as she is all absorbed by the needlework on her lap. "Tell her I shall pray for the late Princess' soul and her as well. God willing, we shall all be reunited one day." She sighs, and it is almost heartbreaking. She is a lot better than I expected for someone who hasn't heard from her sons in months, though. She writes to my aunt in Oradea every week, but it is like our letters do not even reach her for we have received no answer thus far.  
And so I do write to my former lady-in-waiting, now on the verge of becoming a princess herself. If, God willing, we shall ever meet again, I will have to bow to her, even though she was just my handsome uncle's baseborn daughter once. I am nervous and my hands are trembling, so the result is one long messy scrawl.  
  
" _Maria, my dearest, I could not believe it when they told me, although I prayed for you every night. You are alive and faring well at the court of Ștefan cel Mare. I hear that the Princess Consort is dead, too._  
_Pray give my sympathies to the Prince, as well as my poor step-mother's. She told me that they were friends and companions once so she must feel the loss most grievously._  
_God knows that she misses her sons too much already. Her only comfort is knowing that they are both safe. You will know already that Ilona Szilágyi, now Dowager Princess, has joined me at the court of her cousin, King Matthias Corvinus, the only familiar face I see here. She prays that we may all be reunited one day, God bless her._  
_Oh Maria, if only we knew when we were both little girls what fate had in store for us! What happened to my father is a shameful fact, and we will be revenged._  
_I have faith in my brother Mihnea, the rightful heir to the Wallachian throne, now that our sire is gone. I could not bring King Matthias to support our cause._  
_He has nothing to gain and all to lose from this. I still hope that maybe you, once you have taken your intended place next to Prince Ștefan - as his third wife if I am not mistaken? -, will hopefully succeed to remind him of the unforgivable slight that my family has suffered. Remind him of the friendship that binds us, for I was once his bride-to-be and my father has risked everything to protect Moldavia from our sworn and only enemies, the Ottomans and the wretched Dănești pretender they put on my father's throne. If I have my way, I shall be there for your wedding._  
  
_Your loving friend always,_  
  
_Erzsébet D. Princess of Wallachia"_  
  
I look at it disbelievingly. To think that once my schoolmasters used to praise my neat and elegant handwriting! I hand the parchment to the messenger waiting on the threshold all the same. He bows, closes the door behind him, and goes. If Maria can bring Moldavia to support us, I would have won Mihnea an ally, perhaps our first. I have not forgotten where my loyalties lie. The King might foolishly think that he has bought me with beautiful gowns and jewels and a place of honor in his court, but in my heart of hearts I only seek one thing, and I shan't rest until I have it: Basarab Laiotă's head in a vat of black, black tar. For the masque I choose a gown of deep red. I am wearing rubies around my neck, the Queen's rubies, and my skin is nearly translucent against the dark shade of the gown and the fiery sparkle of the stones. The veil on the headdress is scarlet. The hem of my gown is embroidered with dark red silk and the sleeves are cut daringly high to show my wrists.  
On my eyes I rest a thin paper mask with feathers as black as a raven's. The Raven is the royal escutcheon of Matthias Corvinus. The Queen, now my dearest friend, has told me that the King will have two raven badges sewn on his own collar tonight. He is going to play the King Crow in this masquerade. Queen Beatrice, on the other hand, has chosen a gown of ivory silk with feathers as white as a swan's. She is his Swan Bride, however big the loose silks make her look. "What kind of play is this?" I ask, as I help her choose the pearls from the chest. She barely hears me, though. I can tell that she is the only lady at court who's not looking forward to this masque. And I think I know whose fault is that. "It must be The White Bride and The Black One. Haven't you heard of it as a child?" Beatrice of Aragon replies in a sigh, as if I am tiresome. I shake my head slowly, almost ashamed for my ignorance. It surely is not a Wallachian tale for I never heard of it from my aunt Alexandra. I wonder if it has anything to do with Ileana Cosânzeana and Făt-Frumos' own fairytale.  
"It is a story of deceit and lust..." She muses as an aside. I stare at her, startled by this sudden gloom of hers.  
Her beautiful flourishing face seems so afflicted tonight, but she goes on, "A King sees a ravishing portrait of a maiden, white as milk, and decides to summon her at court and marry her. But a wicked woman, a witch, sets an enchantment on the girl and turns her into a little white duck. The witch gives the White Bride's gown to her own daughter, who is as black and ugly as sin. The King is horrified at the sight of the Black Bride, but still he marries her, for he had given his word, and a King's word is sacred."  
I am staring at her plump lips, eager to know how the story ends. In this, I find that I am still like the little girl kneeling at my aunt's feet with my little brothers. The Queen looks at me grimly. She smiles and shrugs. Not every fairytale has a happy ending. "Now, who you think is the White Bride tonight?" I feel so sorry for her. I would give anything to escape this question. "You, Your Majesty?" She nods and her pouty lips twitch bitterly. "And who the Black One?" This is even worse than the first.  
I clench my lips, for I would rather remain silent. We both have the same name in mind though, so I'd better speak it for the both of us. "Lady Barbara Edelpöck?" I murmur, faintly. The Queen closes her eyes, the shame too overbearing. "But you are carrying the King's trueborn heir even now. She is naught but his mistress and her son is a bastard, whilst you are a queen carrying the Crown Prince." The words catch in my throath. The last time I uttered that title I was speaking of Mihnea. There was no doubt in my mind that he would inherit my father's throne, and yet he is just another disgraced claimant now, fled for his life from an usurper. Although my brother is a man now, young and strong, who commands his own men, it didn't serve him against Laiotă's deceit. This is a dangerous world, and nothing is ever certain.  
Of course she fears for her unborn son, and she would never want this woman and her three-year-old son at court either. She lets my words break off, and there is a sudden silence between us and when she speaks again, I do not like the icily sound of her voice, nor what she says.  
  
I can barely recognize her tonight. "Draw the cards for me, Erzsébet." I step back from the silvery mirror. I have drawn the tarots for her and our ladies before as a game, but I have the feeling that she is planning on something far more serious tonight. "We shouldn't make the court wait, Your Majesty. The dinner is to be served..."  
"Don't be foolish, Erzsébet. Draw the cards for me. I need to know my son's fate." I inhale deeply, and as I meet her defiant gaze, I know I can't deny her. Not because she is my queen here, but because she is a woman ill at ease and sick with fear. I shuffle the cards in my hands and hand them for her to cut the deck, as my aunt taught me. I spread out the arcana on the table between us, all of their bright faces downward.  
"Take one, Your Majesty." I tell her in a brittle breath. The Queen of Hungary considers for a while which one, then she decides to follow her gut, and picks one, but she doesn't turn it. Her short forefinger is pointing at the card's flowery back. I nod, and turn it in her stead. I raise my left hand to my neck, where I can feel my heart hammering. I drop my gaze and the card at once. The Queen gets hold of it and takes a look too. She is horrified, her eyes wide, but I cannot bear her gaze now. "What does this mean, Erzsébet? Why?" She is shivering, and there is really nothing I can tell her. My heart is ice cold, as if I had swallowed snow. The card she's drawn is a hooded skeleton riding a rotting horse. There is little to explain. It is the Death, and her baby shall never see the light of day. "It could mean many things. Death is the end of an old life, but also a new beginning for the soul..." I don't know if I sound comforting in my lie, but I try my best to sound convincing. The Queen nods, in her feverish desire to see all her fears discarded. "Yes, and what else? Will my baby bring death on our enemies at court?" I put the ominous card with the others, and hope never to draw it again.  
"Yes. Your son - for I am now certain it's a boy - will be cause of grievous loss for the Hunyadi." Queen Beatrice is suddenly revelling in what I've just predicted, but my vision is so clear now that it sends chills down my spine. The Hunyadi family will be extincted in the male line within two generations. The ways of it, I don't know yet, but there is no doubt in my mind that their dynasty is at an end, and this unborn babe will be the cause of it. The masquing starts soon after dinner and as the Queen said, it tells the story of a Raven King who marries the wrong bride and then regrets it all his life, as his true love is now a duck. Our King, though, does not seem very rueful as he dances with the Black Bride, his mistress, Barbara Edelpöck.  
  
The musicians strike up at once, the King takes both her hands and faces her. Sometimes the lady has to stop him from drawing her closer with a skillful hop, but her smile is full of promise and his look is hot on her flushed face and there is no mistaking them for less than lovers. Beatrice of Aragon, the White Bride, witnesses the entire scene from her high throne on the dais. She is part of this play too, although nobody asks her to dance for she is carrying the royal heir even now.  
The Queen doesn't look the least bothered by the passionate dance that her husband and his mistress are performing, as she sits in her throne under the cloth of estate. She is even willing to ignore the King's acknowledged bastard for this once, the little three-year-old child who is now toddling around the hall with his own personal nursemaid holding his hand. She doesn't mind being a duck tonight, and she will forget that she's yielded her husband to a false witch. She is laughing behind their backs, prompting herself to be patient; she cups her hands on her belly and glances over the hall as nothing would frighten her now. And all this, because I've told her that her son will be the end of them. I feel a twist in my guts like a sudden, cold stab in my belly.  
My hands run to my womb, as if I am with child too, just like the Queen. My husband the Judge Royal leads me out to dance, he praises my looks but there's no warmth in his voice, or in my cheeks. Our marriage is no different from this masquing we're attending and we are naught but two skilled mummers. As we move swiftly through the dancing couples, I do not seek to meet his gaze. I have managed to harden my heart against him, my liar of a husband who only married me to ensure that a demon like Vlad Țepeș, loyal only to himself, would stay loyal to him and Hungary. He may appear a doting husband here, before the entire court, but I know that he shares their belief that my maidenhead is cursed and that he'll die the day he beds me. Perhaps, he should give these voices even more credit than the rest of them do, for the blood of my father is on his hands too and the Voivode most certainly died with a curse on his lips. Ștefan Báthory fears that the name that Drăculea cursed is his, and that his doom shall strike him in the form of a sweet young wife, the very daughter of the man he refused to aid as he died. Clearly, there can be no love between us.  
There is blood between us, and a debt to be paid. I look down the hall, hoping to catch a glimpse of Emeric Zápolya. He'd probably be wearing a mask too, but there is no doubt in my mind that I shall recognize him. I only see my step-mother though. She is as alone as I am sitting on the high dais with the queen, and the people she once knew can't forget that she has borne Drăculea two sons, who are now the heart of her heart. I turn to the hall once again and I see Emeric's brother. Tall and handsome Stephen Zápolya, all clad in silvery velvet and a sword at his belt. The wolf of his house is embroidered on his doublet. He is clearly dressed as a grey wolf tonight, and he silently approaches me as our eyes meet across the hall. My husband has gone to the King's high seat on the dais, and I am alone once again. A Demon Bride without a groom, ignored by all.  
"Were you looking for my brother, Madam?" Stephan bows over the hand I am holding out for him and kisses it. I let out a small giggle.  
  
"It is so odd not to see you together at the King's side." And it truly is. The Zápolya brothers, all perfectly dressed and charming in their manners, are seldom seen without the King. They are loved and trusted by him now, perhaps even more than Michael Ország ever was. But Matthias Corvinus seems to have eyes for none but his mistress and his bastard tonight, and even my husband and the Lord Palatine have to strive to get his attention. "He is waiting for you under the yew arbour", says Stephan, in a whisper that makes my heart thud in my chest. "If you won't go to him, he'll understand. I will tell him that you are a married woman and that he is a fool to hope that..." "I will go. I will go now. Thank you, my lord." Before I even know, I am running down the hallway of the castle as if someone was chasing me.  
My large gown of red velvet makes my movements slow and awkward, so I raise the hem of a few inches with my hands.  
My haste and excitement betray me more than a thousand words would. I feel like a fool, I feel as hopeless as I was in my father's castle that night, so long long ago. Except this time I am a married woman, and the man I wish to meet so desperately is not my husband. My breath is ragged by the time I arrest my footsteps in the great royal garden. I recognize Emeric's slight form, as he is sitting on a stone bench under the arbour, like his brother said. He rises to his feet as soon as he sees me, breathless and flushed under the pale moonlight. I walk slowly to him now. All of sudden, running seems pointless. He is here and he is not going to fade into the darkness like a ghost at midnight.  
Besides, I feel like I am in a dream now, and everything, including myself, slows down. He draws me into the shade of the arbour as soon as I am at arm length. There is none here. None would leave the masque so early and none could see us, but Emeric is cautious nevertheless, and makes sure that the thick branches of the yew hide us from view. Nothing's happened between us. I am still a faithful wife. And yet, I can sense all the unlawfulness of this secret encounter. "You have come." He observes, almost marvelling at the sight of me, facing him.  
As if he wouldn't know that I would walk down the bowels of hell if he wanted to meet me there. He carefully wraps his cloak around my shoulders and clasps it on my chest.  
"You said that you wished to see me at the masque tonight." I measure my words cautiously. I must pay close attention to each of my own steps. I even endeavour to sound displeased, but the high pitch in my voice gives me away too easily.  
"I know. But I couldn't bear to see you there, dancing with the man who doesn't deserve you." He looks terribly at fault. I take one step back. All these men claiming that no other man deserves me but himself make me sick in the stomach. All of this is too familiar, as if it has already occurred before, and I keep my guard up.  
"And are you the man who deserves me, Emeric? Seeing you in secret will stain my name, which is already so battered by the courtiers' malice. Surely you would have taken this into account when you decided to summon me in secret. I hope you have a good reason for meeting me here."  
" _I do_!" He blurts out, silencing all my complaints at once. I stare at him wide-eyed, expectantly. "I have word from your brothers in Wallachia." Emeric adds, quietly. I step closer to him, for I know that what we're going to share is a secret information.  
"What? What of them?" I inquire, my heart hammering in my chest as I pray that I do not have to wear mourning again. "Your aunt is raising the people of Wallachia against Basarab Laiotă cel Bătrân from within the sanctuary, only God knows how she manages. She sends her servants to market and when they come back into the Bishopry, the village is sultry and everyone murmurs their treasons against the Voivode Basarab."  
_It is not treason_ , I want to hiss, but I hush. My head is a whirl. I should be with her, raising the men that my brother needs, not here, biding my time in a stranger's court. "Will they join Mihnea against the usurper?" I ask, as hopeful as a little girl.  
"They would have... Laiotă has sent soldiers to lay waste on the treasonous village, they killed every brave man and raped every woman dwelling there. No one left to side with your brother. He needs Hungary's aid, or he won't ever suceed, I fear."  
  
I hush and grit my teeth in resentment. Nobody has ever even tried to help me since I came here. Nobody seems to care, for my land is now a nest of traitors and war-makers, and nobody here wishes to come to grips with them.  
"And who shall bring Hungary to his cause? I have certainly failed to do so. The King showers me with jewels and any sort of silly gift, but he won't send one man to Wallachia for my brother."  
Emeric stares at me as if he would apologize for what he is about to say. "For Mihnea, he won't, ever. If I were your brother, I would deem it a lost cause and flee."  
_But you are not my brother. Attila's spawn does not flee._ Mihnea would sooner die himself than yield his own claim _._  
"But for you, Erzsébet... He would support your claim, and your husband's, if you ever were to lay one."  
The night's air is turning my lips to ice, and I can barely part them to let out a sigh. It would be an unlawful claim, a wrong claim. Father named Mihnea as his heir, he was the crown prince, not me, never me... And even if he were to die, Vlad and Mircea would still come before me. And once they're gone too, my father's only live half-brother, Vlad Călugărul would rule Wallachia.  
Emeric fuels my uncertainty with more words of persuasion. "You know he would. You are married to his Chief Justice. He could pacify Wallachia and rule through you. It is your father's legacy after all, yours by right. Even your brother couldn't blame you. Think of it, Erzsébet... You would be a princess again, and what a princess you would be for your people! Heaven knows that you could make your country great again and restore its peace, like your brothers and your father never could."  
Only now I realize I am shuddering, and not from the cold, for Emeric's cloak keeps me warm. I am shivering at the perspective of being involved in something that's bigger than I am.  
I am shivering at the thought of having blood on my hands. Nobody who takes up this path gets to keep his hands clean. Mihnea made sure that I knew this, so that I couldn't blame him for the bloodshed that he caused every time he rode out to battle at our father's side.  
Emeric's eyes are shining like embers in a brazier, and I feel their weight on my face all too clearly, his plump lips half-shut, waiting for mine to say something.  
I do not know, I want to say that I do not know and run away, gladly leave the usurper on his throne and forget my father's disgraced death in the hands of our sworn enemies.  
But I can't. _Oh Lord, I can't._


End file.
